


Broken & Bruised

by Lt_BC



Category: Slipknot (Band)
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, And Chrissy is a Whore, Basically just a big TW, Blood, Blowjobs, Cutting, Emotional Manipulation, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Improvised Sex Toys, It had a happy ending now i promise, Kisses, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Nipple Piercings, Paulie's a bit crazy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Violence, Vomiting, You've been warned, dick piercings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:35:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 95,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26757367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lt_BC/pseuds/Lt_BC
Summary: [First chapter reuploaded from my 'The Nasty Nine' Fic, because this all was long enough to be its own work.]Paulie and Chrissy have a fun, well not so fun for Chris, time.Mind the Tags.Obviously no Disrespect.[Deidicated to sigurdyogurt on insta; i luv u <3]
Relationships: Chris Fehn/Paul Gray, Paul Gray/Sid Wilson
Comments: 19
Kudos: 42





	1. Bruised

The backroom of the bar was loud, floor sticky with spilled booze. Garish music blasting through the speakers as people danced and drank to their heart's content. Chris had elected not to join in, instead sitting quietly on a dirty old couch that someone had jammed in the corner of the room. If he tried digging through the liquor stained cushions he was sure to find countless amounts of repulsing little things stuck to the musty fabric. Nursing a beer and glancing around at the drunken party-goers. Chris had spied Sid doing body shots off of a busty blonde, who looked straight out of a 90’s porn magazine sometime earlier, though now the young Dj had disappeared as Chris scanned the crowd. He saw a glimpse of Shawn, the clown having a hushed discussion with two shady looking men, Chris furrowing his brow in confusion before the mass of people shifted and obscured the clown and his acquaintances from Chris’s view. The percussionist sipping at his beer again, it’s not as if the older man would tell anyone what he had planned anyway, Chris didn’t understand half the things the clown did, but he was smart enough to know they were a mix of madness and intelligence. As Corey liked to say _‘Shawn flips between idiot and genius on an hourly fuckin’ basis!’,_ Chris snickering quietly to himself. 

His beer was almost knocked out of his hands when a drunken groupie flopped on the couch next to him, an unwelcome arm slung around his shoulders. She smelled like liquor and sweat, an unpleasant combination that made Chris’s nose wrinkle. Her hair was matted, half tied up in ponytails, purplish lipstick smeared on her face. 

“Hel _looo_ hand- _hic-_ som _e,”_ Her words were slurred, Chris leaning away as she tried to get closer to him. Chris was about to reject the woman's advances when someone else did it for him. 

“Excuse me, Ms. _please fuck off,_ ” Chris glancing up to see Paul’s smiling face, the woman snapping her attention to the tall bassist, a look of indignation on her face. 

“And who- _hic_ th _e_ fuck’re y _ou?”_

 _“A friend.”_ The bassist's voice still friendly, though his message rang clear. Chris managed to shove the woman away from his side. Getting to her unsteady feet and casting them both a look of annoyance as she stalked away, presumably to go bother someone else. Paul’s eyes followed the woman until she disappeared into the mass of people, then flicked his gaze back to Chris. His smile softening as he collapsed on the couch next to the percussionist, chuckling quietly and taking a swig out of the red solo cup in his hand. Chris relaxing a bit, and letting a small smile grace his lips. 

“Thanks,”

“Anytime, dicknose,” Chris snorted and rolled his eyes, watching as the bassist balanced the cup between his knees to free his hands in order to pull a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. Popping one between his lips, only pausing as he glanced at Chris before his eyes lit up. Selecting a particular cigarette and handing it to the percussionist, “Made sure I had a menthol jus’ for you,'' The percussionist raised an eyebrow and let out a surprised chuckle, taking the cigarette from the dark-haired man. 

“Too nice of you, Paulie,” The bassist shrugged, digging a lighter out of his pocket. Lighting his own cig before tossing the lighter at Chris, who caught it. Sparking up the cig and letting the smoke curl on his tongue as he exhaled, the menthol buzzing in his lungs. Tossing the lighter back at the bassist with a smile. The dark-haired man blowing a ring of grayish smoke into the air, snickering as Chris tried to mimic him and failed. Chris playfully hitting the bassist on the shoulder, Paul blowing a ring of smoke into the percussionist's face in retaliation, chuckling warmly as Chris made a face at him. They sat, watching the party rage on, occasionally making humorous comments to each other, and pointing out specific people that were engaging in uncouth acts.

Paul sighing heavily, Chris looking at him with a cocked eyebrow as the bassist nodded towards a scene unfolding across the room. Corey looking like he was about to get into a brawl with a few other party-goers. The two men sitting on the couch could hear the singer's loud voice even over the blaring music. Paul sighing again, gulping down the final bit of the contents of the red solo cup, his brows furrowing a small amount at the taste of whatever it was. Chris watched the bassist throw the cup down to the floor, and heave himself off the couch, cracking his neck as he prepared himself to sort out the current mess their singer was getting himself into. Paul turned to wink at Chris before starting to weave his way through the crowds of people, the brunette watching him go. The percussionist could have sworn he could see something flash in the man’s warm chocolate eyes, something that wasn't normal, but he quickly brushed it off, blaming it on his own state. Even though he knew that he was barely three beers deep. 

Chris was standing on the cold street corner outside the bar. He was waiting for the rest of his bandmates to spill out to join him. Shawn had found him and told him to go wait outside and to grab any other bandmates along the way, Corey was being a problem and even if Paul calmed the fiery man down, the clown decided it was probably best to head back to the hotel. Chris nodding as the clown hurried off to find the rest of the band. 

Mick, Jim, and Craig had already caught their own cab, Chris snickering as he watched the two tall guitarist’s cram themselves in the back of the small vehicle, Craig uncomfortably squished between the two large men. He had been unable to sit in the front due to the massive amount of newspapers that had been stacked on the seat, the silent man crossing his arms and glaring at the back of the drivers headrest. Chris watching the cab drive off, through the window he could see Jim’s neck bent at an awkward angle against the roof of the car, which made the percussionist grin.

He was left waiting with Joey, the small drummer very obviously wasted, leaning against Chris’s side so he didn’t fall onto the pavement, mumbling incoherence while Chris watched Shawn kick open the door to the bar, he had Sid slung over one of his shoulders. The Dj making loud protests as Shawn rolled his eyes. Flagging down another taxi and shoving the young Dj in the back of it and slamming the door shut, before leaning in the window to talk to the driver. A third taxi pulled up, Shawn beckoning Chris over. The percussionist patted Joey’s shoulder and mumbled to him that it was time to leave, only getting a low groan in return. Looping an arm around the shorter man’s shoulders and helping him into the back of the third taxi. Chris turning to see Paul leaving the bar, Corey at his side, the singer looking pissed off, arms crossed as he was led to the back of the waiting cab by the bassist. The blonde sat in the seat next to Sid, who was still complaining that he hadn’t got to stay longer. Chris raised his eyebrows at Shawn, the man looking so tired as he traded a few words with Paul before climbing in the front seat of the taxi. The percussionist smirked, he was sure the clown was going to have a fun car ride with the singer and moping Dj in the backseat. He saw Paul approach, the man smiling at him, gesturing for Chris to get in the car, which the percussionist did. 

Joey was blinking groggily and occasionally hiccupping as Chris settled in the back seat with him. The bassist climbed into the front seat, chatting with the driver and giving him the addresses of the hotel as they pulled away from the bar. Joey had made a grumbling sound, grabbing one of Chris’s arms and moving it out of the way so the drummer could sprawl down on the seats, his head in Chris’s lap. The percussionist only slightly annoyed as he knew Joey would probably leave a stain of drool on his jeans pant leg, but he simply groaned and didn’t try to get the smaller man off him, resting a hand on the drummer's surprisingly soft hair and petting it. Letting his head rest against the cab window, watching the traffic and streets outside. The car radio crackling with music. 

It was only after a moment he could sense the eyes on him, trying to brush it off at first and focus on the view outside but eventually letting his eyes flit to the rearview mirror. He could see Paul staring at him, something swirling in them that Chris couldn’t identify before they blinked away like the bassist had just shared an accidental glance and nothing more. The interaction making Chris recall the same strange unidentifiable emotion in the dark eyes he had seen earlier in the night, only now a bit less convinced it had all just been in his head. Mind racing a bit, thoughts of the bassist swirling in his skull, shaking his head slightly as if trying to expel the things. He let his eyes drift back to the view outside the window, the night lights of the city entertaining him on the short trip back to the hotel. Though he could swear he could feel the gaze back on him, and it made a shiver run up his spine. 

They all made it back to the hotel without anyone dying or getting lost, though Sid had earned a bruise from Corey on the way back, probably for saying something idiotic and cackling at the still angry singer. The lobby of the once quiet hotel was filled with noise as the nine men stumbled in, making their way to the elevators as some of the hotel staff looked at them like they just crawled out of hell itself. Which made Chris silently giggle. They luckily had key cards already, having been in the hotel earlier to drop off their bags with some bare essentials for the night. Chris could feel cold for a second as he remembered that he was rooming with Paul, though he quickly shoved his worry back down. _Stop being so fucking weird, he hasn’t been anything but nice to you. Plus he’s drunk as shit, probably just pass out before you have the chance to be awkward._ The percussionist’s thoughts rang in his ears as he helped Joey into the elevator with a few of the others, someone jamming the button to their floor. 

Everyone was splitting off to their rooms, Sid practically frog marched down the hall by Shawn. Mick had taken Joey off Chris’s hands, leading the small drummer to their shared room. Craig joined up with Corey and Jim, the singer still looking a bit pissed but not moving away from Craig's hand that patted the singer’s back as the trio walked to their room. That left Chris and Paul, the percussionist leading them to the room and unlocking the door after the 2nd try. Chris laughed at himself apologizing under his breath as he pushed open the door of the room, flipping on the lights. Chris still felt the eyes burning into the back of his head as he moved into the hotel room, kicking off his shoes, along with his socks a moment later. Pulling off his hoodie and tossing it on the floor next to his overnight bag. 

The percussionist hadn’t heard Paul make any noise, just about to turn to see what the bassist was doing when he was shoved roughly against the wall of the room. Arms pinned above his head by a large hand around his wrists, a thigh shoved between his legs, and a body pressed to his back, the smell of alcohol strong in his nose. Chris was in a state of shock for a few seconds as he felt the bassist’s face nuzzle into his loose hair. 

Chris was whimpering as lips pressed to his neck, a growling liquor-filled voice in his ear. 

_“You’re so fuckin’ pretty, Chrissy,”_ The percussionist’s face flushed, he couldn’t help it. Paul’s voice was low and predatory, so unlike its usual tone. All the softness and warmth gone from it as the bassist nipped hard as the percussionist’s neck, making the man exhale hard. _“So fucking cute,”_ The tone of Paul’s voice was making Chris skittish if in any other context the words would be welcome, but not here, not now. As a hand snaked under his shirt and pressed to his belly, nails digging into the skin. Chris screwed his eyes shut, his own voice shaky, 

_“Please don't, Paulie. . . N-not tonight.”_ Chris’s tongue choking on the bassist's name as he felt the nails dig into his skin, near drawing blood. A sneering chuckle from behind him.

 _“No? C’mon, Chrissy, don’t play hard to get,”_ Paul’s voice was icy, shivers running through Chris’s body. 

_“Pau-lie . . . N-no,”_ Chris’s own voice was small and weak in comparison, trying to wriggle out of the bassist’s steely grip. The brunette could swear he heard the bones in his wrists pop as the hand tightened around them, venom spat in his ear. 

“Don't give me that _shit_ , Chrissy, We all know you're a filthy _fucking_ **_whore.”_ **Each syllable felt like it was stabbing at Chris’s chest, a pathetic sound gurgling from his throat. Paul snickered low in Chris’s ear, the smell of liquor on his tongue stinging Chris’s nose. The percussionist couldn’t understand how earlier in the night, Paul had been so kind and sweet to him, and now the bassist was undoing Chris’s belt with rough fingers and snickering at every sound of distress the brunette made as if it was funny to him. 

Chris’s face pressing to the wall, his cheek against the chipping paint, Paul’s hand painful at his wrists. He could feel himself trying to pull away, trying to escape his body, but the bassists yanked him back with a hard bite at his neck, Chris yelping, not able to stop the strangled moan that spilled from his lips. Getting a growling chuckle from Paul, as he licked at the blood that beaded at the flushed skin, sucking a few hickies into the sensitive flesh of the brunette’s throat. As the bassist pressed closer to Chris, the percussionist could feel the erection in the bassist’s pants grinding into his ass, it made his eyes go wide and another sharp exhale rip from his throat. He tried to struggle again only to have Paul’s other hand grab between his thighs, the percussionist crying out when the large hand squeezed hard at his groin, hard enough to make tears prick in his eyes. 

_“Stop playing hard to fuckin’ get, Chrissy,”_ The snarling voice was accompanied by the hand of his groin squeezing painfully, a desperate cry from his lips. He felt ice-cold shame course through his veins, his body was betraying him, dick pulsating as the bassist roughly groped at him through his jeans. He couldn’t help it that he was a dirty fucking masochist. 

The man pressed to his back moved, the hand clutching at his wrist letting go and knotting in his hair much too quick for Chris to process. His head slammed against the wall, his vision going just a bit blurry. The bassist ground his hips against the brunette, snarling while his hand still groped between the percussionist’s thighs. The breath against the percussionist’s neck was making him squirm, unintentionally pushing his hips back against Paul, the bassist grunting, a sneer on his lips. 

Chris was wrenched off the wall by his hair, whining as he was dragged over and thrown onto one of the beds. Enough fight left in him to scramble up towards the headboard, looking with tear pricked eyes up at Paul, who was standing at the end of the bed, smiling wolfishly. Chris was frozen, hands knotted in the bedsheets, eyes following the dark-haired man’s every move as he got closer, crawling up the bed until he was in between Chris’s legs, hands on either one of the brunette’s thighs. Chris not able to even choke out a plea to stop as hands trailed up and pushed up his shirt, exposing his abdomen. Paul only paused when the percussionist’s arms were in the way of actually getting the shirt off. The dark eyes snapping up meet to Chris’s watery blue ones, Chris making a sound of defeat moving so that the bassist could yank the shirt off him. The bassist’s eyes scared him, they’d never done that before. The man had never scared Chris like he was right now, his demeanor so different than his typical self it made Chris’s stomach flip, screwing his eyes shut. _It was all so terribly fucking wrong._

Chris was thrown for a loop again when instead of the rough, painful touches from earlier, there was nothing but the soft near comforting ghost of fingertips along his collarbones and chest. A small gasp from his lips when hands caressed his flanks, his breaths shaky. Flinching when they grazed over the piercings in his nipples. He could almost envision this was something he wanted until his delusions were shattered by the zipper of his pants being undone, his underwear being yanked down with no hesitation. Chris could feel tears well up in his eyes as a hand began to touch him, he was still feeling humiliation rush through his veins, making his guts twist. His dick was half hard in the bassist's hand, the touches sparking painful arousal in his lower belly. He whined, not from the friction but the shame that made hot tears trickle down his cheeks, his arms moving to cover his face. 

_“Chrissy. . .”_ The hand on his dick had stopped, the now disarmingly soft voice worming its way into his ears. 

“Chrissy. . . _Please don't cry,”_ The bassist’s voice was in such a tone that unsettled Chris to his very core. Gentle caresses down his chest made his stomach flip. It felt like he was being tossed between two different men, the liquor stirring in the bassist’s body held responsibly. Chris whimpering when the hand managed to get under his arms and caress his jaw, cupping his wet cheek in a mock-comforting way. _“Please look at me, Chrissy,”_ He was a fool, a fucking fool. But he couldn’t help it, maybe the man above him had come to his scenes and would stop. Maybe he would realize that Chris didn’t want this and would leave him alone. _Maybe._

Tears still staining his cheeks when he moved his arms, his eyes still screwed shut until the hand on his face brushed a thumb over his cheekbone and he could hear a sad sound from the bassist. Finally letting his eyes crack open with a small noise of fear in his throat. 

_“There you are, “_ The bassist's lips were in a comforting smile, the eyes that had seemed so dark and threatening replaced with kind pretty brown ones. Giving Chris hope that the man had come to his senses, despite how drunk the bassist was. _“What’s wrong, Chrissy?”_ The percussionist’s lip quivered, transfixed by the pretty brown eyes. 

_“Paulie. . .”_ The dark-haired man tilting his head to the side, _“I-I don’t want thi-s,”_ Chris sputtered, _“Please, sto-op, p-please. I won’t t-tell, just stop, plea-se. I don’t w-ant this, I- i. . .”_ The words died on his tongue. Chris could see the kindness drain out of Paul’s eyes, the look of pleasantness on the man's face dropping away and being replaced by a look of pure ire. The sudden switch only something a drunk or mad man could do. Chris felt icy fear grip his insides, every single nerve in his body telling him to run and get away from the man hovering over him. He couldn’t even scream. 

**_“Don't fucking lie to me, Chris.”_ **The bassist's teeth were grit together so hard Chris could see the muscle in his jaw flexing. He knew from just that first word that he could no longer get away, he couldn’t escape his fate. Even if he screamed, he couldn’t escape the man forever. Absolute cruel acceptance seeped over Chris like a smothering blanket, another wave of hot tears rolling down his cheeks. All he could do was mutter quiet refusals that fell on deaf ears as Paul’s hand went back to accost the percussionist’s dick, which had almost gone soft until the horribly skilled fingers of the bassist wrapped around it, making Chris bite back a traitorous moan. Paul didn’t even break eye contact with the man under him, blinded by drunken lust as he dragged nails from Chris’s jaw down the vulnerable heaving chest. Red lines carved into the pale skin, a predator’s smile on the bassist's lips. Chris was falling back into himself, everything becoming a bit fuzzy on the edges, the only things dragging him back were the cruel hands on him and the dark eyes that Chris could swear were able to see everything that was running wild in his head. 

Then Paul’s eyes snapped away. The smile only faltered for a second as he leaned back, cocking his head towards the door, glancing at it for a second. A fist was wrapping against the door, they only had to wait for a second to hear Shawn’s voice to call out, muffed but distinct, _‘Open up’_ Paul’s sneer was back, his eye scanning up and down Chris’s form. The percussionist's eyes darting wildly as if he was debating calling out to the clown for help, but the wish was crushed as Paul leaned down right next to his ear, voice filled with sick glee, 

_“Stay quiet, Chrissy. Don't want Shawn seein’ you like this now, do you?”_ Chris flinched. Paul climbed off the bed, casting Chris one last look of something like madness, holding a finger up to his lips in a shushing gesture, before he walked to the hotel room door. Disappearing behind the small inlet where the door stood, Shawn was still knocking. The percussionist almost made a surprised sound when the lights flicked off before the door clicked open. Chris felt his whole body fighting itself to cry out. Call for help, do anything. But he couldn’t. The bassist’s eyes had seemed to shut him down, his shaking hands coming up to cover his face again, trying so hard to keep his breathing quiet. 

_“Hey Shawn, somethin’ up?”_ Paul’s voice was back to how it normally was. _It sent a jolt of fear up Chris’s spine._

_“Nah, just reminding everyone that bus call’s at Eight. Don't wanna have to go search for anyone again, like that time in, What was it? Seattle?”_

_“San Francisco, Sid wanted donuts,”_ Shawn snorted, Paul chuckling quietly. Chris was sure that he had one of his classic kind smiles, eyes not filled with anger or drunken madness.

 _“Alright, G’night Paul,”_ Chris was teetering on the edge of calling out, his time running out. He doubted Shawn would come back around to give him a second chance.

 _“Night Shawn,”_ Chris could hear the door start to close before Shawn called out again,

 _“Make sure to tell Chris, fucker’s almost as slow as Sid sometimes,”_ A noise of acknowledgment from Paul. Chris almost screamed, but it caught in his throat as the door was pulled shut. He choked. Lock clicking back into place. _Fuck._

Chris could sense the man’s presence approaching, the room still bathed in black, he turned his head away from where he knew the man stood next to the bed. He stayed limp as his jeans and underwear were pulled down and off his legs, the feeling of the bedsheet under him made it feel as if he was more exposed than before, a whimper escaping from his lips. The dim side table lap flicked on, though his eyes were still screwed shut. Stomach muscles twitching when a large burning hand came to rest on his belly, sliding down to touch his cock again, the thing leaking in the bassist’s fist. Chris letting out a pathetic moan as he felt shame burn across his face, his dick sensitive under the bassist's unwanted touches. Paul’s breath was hot and stinking with alcohol against the side of Chris’s face. 

_“Good job, Chrissy, Staying all nice and quiet for me,”_ Chris flinched, _” You must really want this after all, huh?”_ The voice was amused and dripping with venom. Chris was shaking his head no, not as if it mattered. The hand around his dick was fast, driving him towards the edge that he was trying so desperately not to fall off. Lips were kissing at his neck, teeth sinking into his skin, and Paul’s other hand knotting in Chris’s hair. Moving the percussionist so Paul could slam their lips together, the taste of blood and liquor invading Chris’s mouth. He wasn't making an effort to kiss the bassist back, but the tongue still wormed its way into his slack mouth regardless, he was tempted to bite it. Like Paul could read his mind, the base of the brunette’s dick was surrounded by tan fingers and squeezed hard, Chris groaning loudly into Paul’s mouth at the pain. The bassist's pulling away, a string of drool connecting their lips as he smiled down at the brunette, who was squirming uncomfortably and rolling his head back against the pillow. 

_“You can’t hold out forever, bitch,”_ Fingers massaging right under the head of Chris's cock, nerves firing, and strangled sounds crawling their way out of the brunette’s throat. He couldn’t help when his hips bucked into the tight fist, the way his body was reacting make him nauseous. His back arched off the bed, the orgasm ripping through him felt more like multiple punches to the gut. His form flooded with searing humiliation, brain getting all fuzzy. Sticky fluid spattering onto his belly, his jaw going slack, thigh muscles tensing up. Paul was sneering down at him, leaning to kiss Chris’s swollen wet lips as the percussionist stared with half-lidded glassy eyes up at the ceiling, hair in messy rivulets around his face. Body occasionally shivering in his aftershocks. _“You seem to be enjoying this,”_ The bassist’s comment made Chris’s heart stutter. _No, no he wasn't._

A hand clutched at his hip, pulling him over on to lay limply on his side, leg moving to help prop him up. The ejaculant on his stomach was dripping onto the bedsheets. Only for tan fingers to run along his belly, gathering up the fluid, Chris mind only half processing what was happening as the slicked fingers slid down in between his asscheeks. His own ejaculant coating his entrance as the fingers rubbed against him. A sound of confused disgust from Chris’s chest as the fingers moved back to his belly to gather up for the pearly fluid, smearing it between Chris’s legs. 

The brunette’s eyes flew open, a loud whine spilling from his lips as a finger sunk all the way up the third knuckle inside of him, twisting to make Chris whimper. His own cum the only lubricant as the finger curled and twisted inside him. His eyes focusing on Paul. The bassist’s eyes had darkened, his mouth in a sharp-toothed sneer, not a hint of sympathy in his gaze as he forced another slick coated finger inside of Chris’s body. The stretch making Chris’s nerves burn, his hips trying to jolt away from the intrusion. Eyes wild as the fingers moved quick and deadly in him; scissoring and working the quivering muscles open. 

Chris’s breath was panicked, muttered refusals as the third cruel finger was shoved into his body with little regard for his well being. He could feel them press and rub at the bundle of nerves in his guts, a long nasty moan ripping from his throat, the post-orgasm sensitivity making it a painful burning haze. A hand cupping his jaw and tilting his head up off the pillows, meeting the dark frightening eyes of his _friend._

“You like it rough,” Paul’s voice was frighteningly soft, a low rumble, _“Don't you, Chrissy?”_

The fingers pulled out of him, leaving him wet and open. He could feel strong hands flip him on his stomach, cheek pressed to the pillows, knees forced to bend and prop his hips up, legs spread obscenely, tan fingers running up his spine. The bed dipping when Paul climbed up behind Chris, the man settling in behind the percussionist, resting his large hands on the brunette’s waist, moving closer to grind his hips against the bare ass. The erection in his pants pressing to Chris, the percussionist let out a hopeless noise. The sound of a zipper made Chris squirm, the hand at his waist had a bruising grip at the flushed skin. He could hear the bassist’s breathing get heavier, the distinctive sound of a hand stroking around a dick. Then Chris could feel the head of a cock pressing against his asshole, and something else, it took him a moment to recognize it, a hard metal ring that must have been pierced through the bassist dick. He’d heard rumors of it, from his bandmates, they had made obscene comments about how wonderful it felt, but to him, it was a feeling of absolute horror. He felt hot tears spill down his face, choked gasps from his throat as he sobbed into the pillow, tears wetting the fabric. 

“Oh, _Shut the_ ** _fuck_** _up,_ _Chris._ ” A hard slap at one of his thighs made him bury his face in the pillow and sob hard, trying to muffle his cries. _“You know you fucking want it, the dirty fucking whore you are,”_ He was crying hard into the pillow clutched in his arms, hugging it like it could save him. Deep cutting feelings of violation lashing out in his guts as the dick breached him. The painful burning of his body trying to resist it making him shake, gagging into the pillow. His mind trying to shut down completely as the cock fucked further into him, the barbell piercings in the bassist’s dick grazing over his prostate and making him nauseous. _It all hurt so fucking bad._

The cock was buried up to the hilt deep inside him and it made him sick, heavy sobs racking his body as hands gripped harshly at his hips, one of them snaking up to knot hard in his hair. The hand yanking his head up, his back forced to arch at a painful angle, tears dripping down his face, drool slicking his chin, eyes squeezed shut. 

_“So tight and good for me, aren't you, my pretty little whore,”_ A rumbling groan from the bassist as he pulled hard at Chris’s hair, rolling his hips into the brunette’s broken trembling body. Chris was limp, all he could do was whimper and weep out a choked string of _‘no, no, please, no, Paulie, n-no, please don’t, please, no’,_ his voice a blubbering mess as the bassist bucked his hips, Chris’s jaw slack as more tears ran down his face. The only thing preventing him from falling back onto the pillow was the bassist’s hand, which was tangled and pulling hard at his hair with every thrust of the drunk man’s hips.

Chris’s mind had ripped apart. He could no longer feel anything but numbed pain, it felt as if his body was a million miles away, just barely his own anymore. He could hear the muffled sounds of someone sobbing, he presumed it was him. The slap of skin against skin, labored breaths, his bottom half spiked with pain and a sick mix of numbed horrible pleasure. His stomach felt like someone hand punched holes through it and let the contents drain out onto the bed. He could see himself, like he was sitting next to his prone, weak, shivering body on the hotel bed, watching as his. . . _Friend,_ the thought made Chris’s heart twinge, slammed himself into the percussionist’s limp form. 

His pace manic, crazed, and fucking _painful._ The bassist voice a deep snarl as he rutted into Chris, muttering a mixture of insults and praise, that made the brunette’s head spin. He couldn’t handle it all, half-lidded glazed eyes no longer seeing a damned thing as his brain plummeted into darkness, receding into some small corner of his mind that hadn't been fucked out and taken by the dark-haired madman above him. Everything was numb. 

_“_ ** _Oh, Chrissy,_** _”_ Chris could feel a thumb gently caressing his cheekbone. For a wonderful second, he thought it had all been a terrible dream, the hand cupping his cheek was comforting, but the warm voice was tinged with a sharp edge. A shock of fear jolted through the man, the bassist couldn’t even let Chris’s mind escape while he finished his sick fucking assault on the percussionist. Nails dug into the skin right under his jaw, the hand still holding his face. Chris’s eyes refusing to blink open. He noticed he had been flipped over, his back pressing to the messy bedsheets, head propped up on the tear and drool soaked pillow. He knew his own cock was still soft against his belly, even his traitorous body had its limits. All the brunette’s limbs were still numb, his brain still not fully connected to his physical self. _“You went away for a second there, Chrissy,”_ The soft touch of the thumb against his cheekbone was contrasted harshly with the nails digging into his skin. _“Didn't want you to miss anything,”_ The stinging scent of liquor fanned across Chris’s face as the bassist leaned close. The bassist’s hips rolled, the brunette hadn't registered the fact the dick was still buried in his guts, gagging as it moved inside him, face twisting as he tasted humiliation on his tongue. Another snap of the bassist's hips made him bite back a sob. He could practically feel the bassist sneering at him. _“Open your eyes”_ The bassist bucking into him as the percussionist gagged again, the hand at his jaw tightening its grip of his face and the other hand at his waist squeezing his flesh with bruising strength.

Chris's eyes flickered open, met with the low unfocused light of the room, his eyes meeting the burning leering eyes of the man hovering above him. Who was smiling with all the charisma of a madman and all the lust of a sinner. Once pretty glimmery chocolate eyes now dark pits that scared Chris more than he could describe. An imitation of a kind smile on Paul’s lips, 

_“There you are, Chris,”_ The hand let go of the brunette's jaw, moving to brush away some of the tangled hair that had stuck to Chris’s sweaty face. Chris couldn’t rip away his eyes from the bassist's gaze, Paul tilting his head to the side seeing if Chris’s eyes would follow him. They did. The dark-haired man exhaled sharply in amusement. 

The snapping thrust into him jolted the percussionist’s mind, eyes unfocusing though not daring to screw them closed, a small gasp of pained surprise escaping his lips. The thrusts were slow, methodical, and somehow more painful than the manic pace that the man had put him through earlier. Each one ripping a whimper out of Chris, he was on the verge of crying again, if indeed he had any more tears to cry. Dry sobs, making his chest heave with every movement of the bassist inside him. Methodical _fucking_ torture. The tan hands ghosting in a tauntingly delicate way over his skin, every touch like a violation. 

_“You feel so fucking good, Chrissy,”_ A low purr, fingers tracing the lines of Chris’s abdomen. _“So pretty,”_ Chris’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, no longer even able to flinch at the hands, mouth, and cock that defiled him. Only small whimpers serving as his only semblance of outward defiance toward the man above him. And yet, that was stripped from him too. Lips pressing to his, a one-sided and cruel kiss. The bassist swallowing every sound that Chris made as his own hips rolled, near the end of his own track. 

Chris’s legs trembled on the bed, spread to accommodate the man between them, who was groaning. Guttural sounds that vibrated up Chris’s spine, as the dark-haired man’s head tilted to deepen the one-sided kiss. Though in the drunk man’s madness he didn’t notice or care that the brunette was as unresponsive as a corpse. When the bassist's lips left Chris’s, the percussionist’s head fell limply to the side, the man above him taking it as an invitation to bite again at the sensitive skin of Chris’s throat. Only a small huff of air exhaled from Chris’s mouth as the teeth left his skin bloodied and bruised. No mercy as the teeth sunk in again, painful at the base of his neck. The hips had started to pick up their pace, slamming into Chris with a dull ache, the bassist’s mouth spitting out an obscene comment about Chris’s body. The thrust stuttering, the one tan hand holding the bassist up as the other held a bruising grip on the brunette’s side. Chris’s fingers twitching, abdominal muscles tensing as an instinctual response to the numbed agony that spread through his nerves in waves.

Teeth were back at his throat, cutting into his skin, so cruel and painful it actually ripped a dry sob out of Chris’s prone form, blood seeping from the wound. The dark-haired man let out a snarling moan against Chris’s flesh as his hips bucked hard into the limp frame. A few animalistic grunting noises from the bassist as he sunk deep into Chris’s warm fucked out guts. White-hot ejaculant spilling into Chris’s body, the cum fucked even further into the trembling man as the bassist rolled his hips in the aftershocks of his orgasm. Chris’s form was shaking, muscles contracting, a visceral reaction to the slick coating his insides, inner muscles clenching around the dick still buried in him. Paul leaning back and panting hard, looking down at Chris with clouded dark eyes, hand moving to splay across Chris’s belly, the other still at the bruised hip. 

_“Such a lovely whore,”_ Paul’s eyes were half-lidded, the dim light of the bedside lamp making the man’s face look strange and inhuman. Chris couldn’t look up at him and certainly couldn’t meet the dark glimmering eyes that he could feel trace the lines and curves of his body, then up to his face. Tear stained red cheeks and kiss-swollen pink lips, drool trickling down his chin. Chris's neck was radiating waves of pain. Flesh burning and raw, blood oozing from the teeth marks, some of it dried and cracking on the rosy skin. Bruises already starting to form, by tomorrow his throat would no doubt be blotchy with deep purplish green marks. They would be hard to cover and even harder to explain away. Chris shivering; he could almost hear the nasty comments that his bandmates would make. 

Chris’s teeth grit together as he felt the cock pull out of him, insides feeling empty and used. Pearly fluid spilling out, making a mess between his legs, staining the bedsheets. His eyes finally squeezed shut as he choked back a bit of burning stomach acid that rose in the back of his throat, he felt utterly fucking disgusted. The sensation of the ejaculant coating his insides, so deep in his guts that it felt like he could never get it out made him fucking _sick._

He didn’t think any more tears could possibly trickle down his cheeks. And yet another thick sob clawed its way out of his raw throat, it was painful. Chris could just barely feel the large hands that moved to cup his face, thumbs caressing his cheekbones, brushing some of the tears away. Gentle kisses peppering his face, kind and warm. Almost to the brink of comforting if they weren’t from the man that was the source of his sobs. 

Chris didn’t know how long he had cried until his tears finally dried up, his mind swirling and unfocused. He had noticed when the hands had left him, along with the mouth. The other man moved away from him, arms eventually hooking under his limp shaking body and lifting him. Setting him down carefully on the other hotel bed, Chris laid on his side. The arms that carried him drawing away as he curled into a trembling ball, hugging at his own knees. A cheap hotel towel was used to mop some of the mess off his skin. Chris not even flinching away when fingers ghosted down his exposed side. The bedside lamp flicked off. 

The mattress dipping behind him as arms wrapped around his middle, wrapping their way around his waist forcing him to uncurl his form just slightly. He could feel the radiating heat of the bare light caramel skin pressing to his back, his head tucked under the bassist’s chin, pressed against the dark-haired man’s chest. Chris dry sobs wracking his body as Paul hugged him, humming softly and his hands petted and caressed Chris’s skin. 

Chris felt like someone had hit him in the head with a sledgehammer, each flashing memory of Paul’s hands and mouth on his was painful, his insides still dirty. He was in shock, he couldn’t pull away as Paul cuddled closer to him. The bassist’s breaths slowed as his drunken mind started to slip into unconsciousness while clutching Chris to his chest, light caramel skin like scorching coals against the brunettes’ body. But Chris couldn’t bring himself to try and escape the bassist's strong arms. His breaths were still choked and ugly, trying to calm himself. Scrambling to remember anything that would pull him away from the current reality. Drifting off into a world of old memories, a pang of sadness in his guts as he slipped away into a small dark corner inside his skull. Sleep swallowing him up after a long while, tears dried on his cheeks, a dull ache throughout his whole form. The empty void of unconsciousness a welcome friend to help him escape from the broken used form that he was trapped in, a final rip of anguish in his heart. _Everything just hurt so fucking bad._


	2. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You Know The Drill, It Only Gets Worse from Here ;)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Luv u Mags <4

Chris’s mind was storming. He had slept for what felt like seconds before he snapped awake again with the unwanted arms around him. Forced to lay in the clutches of the man that had hurt him so much, Chris could still feel his insides dirtied and used. He couldn’t hold back the painful memories thrashing in his head, each one like a dagger to the gut. He felt nausea twist his stomach, trying to curl into a ball again and squeeze his eyes shut, breathing made difficult by what felt like ten thousand pounds pressing down onto his chest. He choked, trying to cover his mouth with a hand. Body jolting from a painful churning of his stomach, he made a strangled sound as burning acid bubbled in the back of his throat. He could feel his organs contract and shudder, stomach acid painful on his tongue.

He gagged again, a hard cough expelling the fluid from his throat, though his hand stopped it from exiting his mouth. Trying to swallow it back down with a hopeless sound, another wave of the burning fluid rose in his throat and made him choke, moving his hand and letting it spill onto the bedsheet beside his face, the sour taste making him cringe, the vile liquid wetting the side of his face. Another hard jolt of his body made another wave of the stuff spill from his lips, gasping for air as the smell of the acrid fluid invaded his nose. Body wracked with shudders, the arms tight around his middle made him feel trapped, he was going to choke to death on his own stomach fluid, the idea almost calming him, at least he could escape this newfound _fucking_ hell. Then he coughed hard, throat on fire, tears spilling down his face. 

Hair was brushed out of his face, some of it slimy with stomach fluids, the hand touching his cheek as he whimpered and let thick drool ooze from his lips. He could feel Paul move behind him, sitting up to watch Chris’s trembling body convulse and vomit out more burning acid. Chris felt a hand pulling him to turn onto his back, he couldn’t stop it. Limp body flopping onto it’s back, a large hand petting his heaving chest, trailing down to his belly. A painful moan ripped out of his burning throat as the hand pushed slowly against his stomach, pressure on his belly making him choke. Breathlessly trying to plead for the other man to stop, hands coming up to weakly clutch at the hand that was cruel against his belly. His body writhed and his head tried to roll to the side, only for the man’s other hand to grab hard at his hair and hold his still. The acid gathered in his mouth, unable to escape as it clogged his esophagus and seared his nose. Watery pleading eyes flying open to look up at Paul, who looked calm as he watched Chris gurgle and choke under his hands, the percussionist should have known by now that pleading with the man did nothing. The bassist cocking his head to the side, as Chris’s watery eyes unfocused and hands stopped scrabbling at the tan hand still putting pressure on his stomach. All The percussionist could do was wait to see if the man would let him breathe again, his vision becoming hazy. 

His head was snapped to the side, hard enough to make the tendons in his neck strain. The vomit spilling from his mouth, coughing hard to try desperately to get out of him so he could breathe. The hand at his belly withdrawing and moving up to help him turn onto his side. He gasped deeply, oxygen flooding back into his lungs, throat still tinged with acid. The acrid taste in his mouth burning with every inhale, eyes screwed shut. The hand in his hair untangled itself to caress his sweaty cheek, Chris shuttering,

_“Let’s get you cleaned up, Chrissy,”_

Chris was set down in the bathtub, sick dribbling from his lips. He flinched when water from the showerhead rained over him, it was cold, stinging his skin. A washcloth was gliding over the side of his face, washing off the vomit that was clinging to his skin, washing down his neck, making him shiver a small bit when the cloth brushed over his chest due to the piercings through his nipples. The dried blood crusted to the bruised skin dying the water that trickled down Chris’s body a diluted red. Soft whimpers drowned out by the shower as the bruised skin was washed, the deep teeth marks throbbing in sync with his pulse, the water stinging the wounds. Blood and vomit was circling the drain as Chris stared glassy-eyed at the ceiling, the occasional drop of water landing near his eye and making him blink, Paul washing the percussionist's broken body with hands that felt unpleasant despite their gentle touch. It took a moment for Chris to register the hand sliding in between his thighs, moving down until a finger grazed over his abused and sore asshole. The brunette’s body tensing up, a sharp inhale followed by Chris making a sort of mewling sound as the finger sunk into him. 

His insides were still slick and fucked out, the finger having nearly no trouble pressing into him. He shifted his hips, legs shaking as the finger moved slow, curling in the warm mess of his guts. Chris was going to cry again, lip quivering, the water from the showerhead hiding any tears that spilled from his bleary eyes as the percussionist felt himself trying to slip away again under Paul’s hands. Small gasps on his lips, fear curling in his gut. A soft chuckle grabbing his attention, eyes snapping up to the bassist’s face. 

_“Chrissy…”_ Chocolate eyes were tracing down Chris’s body. The bassist snickering as he pushed another finger in the trembling man laying broken and bruised in the bathtub, watching as Chris rolled his head back and forth, the edge of the tub digging into the side of his face. The percussionist's thighs pressed together, trapping the wrist between them, though that didn’t stop the finger inside the man rubbing against the used inner walls. Chris’s stomach muscles tensing, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. Humiliation buzzing throughout the percussionist’s body as he felt his own dick throb against his belly, another desperate mewling sound spilling from his lips. The brunette _hated_ that the bassist’s fingers could curl inside him, hitting his prostate and make him flinch and mewl, squirming under the unwanted touches. He _hated_ the bassist, but he hated himself more. 

Breaths gurgling out of his body, muscles twitching as he could feel an orgasm building hot in his lower belly. Though the brunette no longer cared, he couldn’t run from it, his legs barely worked anyways. Thigh muscles shuddering around the wrist still trapped between them, hands clutching at the edges of the tub, teeth biting hard at his lip; hard enough to draw blood, the metallic taste filling his mouth. _Better than vomit._

The brunette’s body arched, toes curling, nails scratching at the porcelain of the tub. Sticky fluid splattering onto his already wet stomach, Paul crooning something that Chris couldn’t process. A string of thick bloody drool dripping from his lips as he whimpered, damp hair sticking to his face. The water was still pouring over him, quickly washing away the cum that slicked his stomach. 

The percussionist felt numb, he couldn’t understand anything that had happened to him since the previous night at the party, from the moment of looking into Paul’s chocolate warm eyes everything felt like a dream. Well, more of a bloody _fucking_ **_nightmare._ **

His legs had gone limp, the hand able to pull out of him and move to squeeze hard at one of his thighs. Moving up his hip and pressing against his belly again, which still had remnants of his unsatisfactory orgasm spilled on it. The pale blue eyes had fallen half shut, unfocused, and staring at the cracked tile of the wall. He didn’t want to feel the hand caress over him, nor the dark eyes that dug into his skin, he didn’t want to feel any of it. A painful knot of sadness twisted in his gut, he didn’t have any more tears to cry. Only making a small defeated noise as the water was shut off, the strong arms lifting him, his head lolling against the light caramel chest. The percussionist was set on the foot of one of the beds, smelling the strong scent of his own sick again, shivering. Left sitting on the edge of the bed, he was swaying slightly, threatening at any moment to fall over. The bassist standing in front of him, hand resting on Chris’s shoulders, moving to cup the brunette's face, forcing the man’s face to look up at him. The warm chocolate eyes were back, worming their way into Chris’s mind like they were perfectly innocent, gentle hands cupping his face, brushing some of the damp hair out of the way. The bassist mumbled something, leaning down to kiss Chriss’s forehead. 

_“Let's get you dressed,”_ The man’s voice was quiet and. . . _comforting._ Chris wanted to slap himself in the face as that thought bubbled up, a quiet noise escaping his chest. Paul chuckled, sliding a hand up to comb through the brunette's still wet hair, “Gotta get you dried off first though,” The percussionist twisted his hands in the bedsheets as the bassist moved away, fighting to stay upright and not fall off the bed, his legs shaking. 

Chris was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized shirt that had been dug out of his overnight bag. The percussionist’s hair still a tiny bit damp and tangled around his shoulders. He had been guided over to the worn fo-leather chair that was crammed in the corner of the hotel room, his pale blue sweatshirt laid over his lap. Paul kissed his forehead again before going off to bundle up the dirty bed sheets, calling down to the front to tell them that unfortunately, Chris had gotten sick, chuckling and apologizing on the phone, blaming alcohol for the vomit. They had sent someone up to gather the dirty bed sheets, Chris still staring at the carpeted floor, and not even looking up when someone asked if he was okay. Paul answered for him saying that the percussionist was just hungover, giving a reassuring smile. Helping move the sheets out of the room, so he and Chris were left alone again. 

The brunette felt a hand cup his face again, the bassist murmur something about a shower before moving away. Chris could hear the shower running, the rattling pipes making him blink away some of the haziness in his mind. _You could run._ Chris almost laughed, he had had a prime opportunity to get away from the dark-haired man last night, Shawn showing up could have been his savior, but no. He was too weak to even save himself then, why would he even bother trying to escape now. He was getting lost in a whirlpool of his own thoughts, small giggles of uncontrollable heartbroken amusement jolted his body, his eyes watering. Eventually, he settled back into silence, his cheeks wet with the little tears he could still cry, a hand covering his mouth as a choked sob ripped at his throat. _Everything just fucking hurt._

Chris hadn’t noticed the other man had finished his shower until the dark-haired man stood in front of him, dressed in the same clothes from last night save for an unzipped hoodie. A hand back petting at Chris’s hair, the bassist's voice sounded distant in the brunette ears as the man asked if he wanted anything for breakfast. Chris shaking his head, staring at the floor. Paul sighed, leaning down to kiss the top of Chris’s head. Mumbling a _‘be back soon’_ before grabbing a key card and padding out of the room, the door clicking behind him. 

When Paul had gotten back, Chris was still sat in the fo-leather chair, staring intently at the carpet, though the percussionist had pulled on the pale blue hoodie and was hugging himself. Paul knelt in front of the man, a paper plate set in the percussionist's lap. A few strips of bacon and two slices of toast on it. The bassist reaching a hand up to cup Chris’s face, 

_“Please try and eat something, Chrissy,”_ The brunette only made a small noise in the back of his throat. 

It was 7:30. Chris had managed to choke down two strips of bacon and a bit of toast before his stomach lurched, and he pushed the food away. Paul tossed him a water bottle and encouraged him to drink some. 

Paul glanced at the clock, sighing as he turned to Chris,

 _“Should head down to the buses, don’t wanna get yelled at by Shawn,”_ the bassist smiled, hopping off one of the beds and tossing his overnight bag over his shoulder, picking up Chris’s as well. Chris still not moving, a fresh wave of nausea rolling over the brunette as his mind raced at a million miles an hour at the thought of his bandmates. _What will they fucking think of you Chris, all bruised up? Insides all fucked out._ He could already hear the cruel laughter of the other men in his head. Chris’s body was trembling again, he hated it. A hand grabbed at him, pulling him up. The percussionist’s legs were still trembling, though they did support his weight. A tan hand cupping his face, and tilting his head up. He was met with a soft reassuring smile of the bassist, the thumb ghosting over his cheekbone. Paul said something that Chris didn’t hear, then he was led out of the room by the man, limping down the hallway to the buses that were parked in the back lot of the hotel. Paul had let go of his hand once they had walked into the lot, Chris’s bag shoved back into his arms. Chris stumbled onto one of the busses, his stomach dropping when he saw Sid and Corey already on it. The two yelling enthusiastically about something to do with _‘Massive Fucking Tits!’,_ Chris trying to push past the two into the back area of the bus. 

“Chrissy!” Sid screamed, jumping in front of the percussionist, “If you _had_ to choose, would you ra- _What the fuck is wrong with your neck?”_ The Dj narrowing his eyes and moved closer to the brunette. Chris moving away as best he could, mumbling, 

_“Nothin’”_

“Yeah, their fuckin’ is!” Sid tried to reach out and pull the hood off of Chris’s head, The percussionist reeling back, only to have Corey snatch the hood down from behind, wrenching it so hard it made the brunette choke a tiny bit as the collar dug into his neck. Chris’s hand came up to cover his neck, but not before both of the other men had gotten a good look. 

“Jesus _fuckin’_ Christ, dicknose! Did you get attacked by a _fucking rottweiler_?!” Corey was cackling, Sid darting closer to try and see the bruises that painted the percussionist's throat, the brunette’s hand not managing to cover all of the discolored skin.

“Didn’t bring any groupies back last night,” Sid snickered, _“Who did Chris have to share a room with, Cor?”_ The singer was pressed against Chris’s back, arms looping around the percussionist’s waist. Chris tried to pry the singer off, just as Sid’s arms wrapped around his shoulders. 

“Wasn't Jim or Craig, _Maybe Shawn?”_

“Nah he was with me. _Was it Micky?”_ Sid snickering, watching the way Chris’s eye darted around frantically, like a trapped animal. 

“Mick was to busy fucking the shit out of Jo, could practically hear them from three rooms over,” Sid barked out a laugh as the singer continued, _“That leaves us with dear ol’ Paulie. Doesn’t it, Sid?”_ Chris was breathing harder now, his throat tightening, he was going to start crying again. And the last thing he wanted was to do that in front of the two men. _“Did Paulie give you that big ass bruise, Chrissy?”_

The percussionist could only choke out something that sounded like a _‘Yes’_ just to get the two men to stop. Sid was grinning wide, Corey chuckled as he gave the percussionist a squeeze before letting him go. Sid pinched one of Chris’s cheeks as he untangled his tattooed arms from around the percussionist's neck. Chris’s legs shaking again as he quickly pulled his hood back over his head, pulling the drawstring a bit tighter. Corey wolf-whistling while he and Sid practically skipped off the bus, Chris was just happy they were gone. He could hear Corey make an obscene comment before the door of the bus slammed shut. They were probably off to flaunt their discovery to the rest of the band, Chris choking out a sob as he shuffled to the back of the bus, throwing his bag down on his bunk as he rushed to the small cramped bathroom. The door’s lock clicking behind him. 

His hand clawing at the hoodie and shirt, wrenching them off. He only now even saw the light bruises on his wrists, studying his hands, which were trembling. The small mirror hung crooked on the wall, reflecting his face back at him. His eyes were red, small tears welling in the corners. Lips a deeper shade of red than normal. He could see a yellowish tint creeping onto his jaw, turning his head so he could see the full extent of the bruise that had earned the attention of his bandmates. His neck really did look as if a mad dog had attacked him. Deep reddish-purple stains on the pale skin, yellow ringing the edges of it, creeping along his collarbones and shoulder. He could see multiple bite marks, each tooth mark covered with crusted dried blood. A shock of humiliation shooting through his veins. With each movement of his neck, the marks pulsated along with his spiking heart rate. He was surprised the bassist hadn’t just ripped his throat out, finished what he had started, and killed Chris right then and there. It would have saved the percussionist a fair bit of pain. His chest looked much the same, a few bruises scattered down his body. 

Breathing quickened as he heard voices entering the bus. Chris scrambled to put his shirt and hoodie back on, flipping the hood back over his head and trying to hide as much as he could of his bruised throat. Taking a deep breath, looking into the mirror one last time before stepping out of the bathroom. The brunette beelined for his bunk, managing to make it there without anyone stopping him, he could hear Joey yelling about something from the front of the bus. The small drummer’s voice ringing in Chris’s ears as he slipped into his bunk, pulling the curtain closed and huddling in the thin blankets. The privacy curtain didn’t do anything to stifle the noise that the other men of the bus produced, Chris shaking as he heard someone approach his bunk. Then a shout of _‘Don’t bother him, he’s recovering from last night!’_ Corey’s voice, a laugh ringing out. _‘The hell happened last night?’_ Jim’s voice replying. Chris wrapping his arms around his head and curling into a tighter ball as best he could in the small space. He could hear Joey as well, snickering and calling Jim over.

A hot tear slipped down his cheek, forming a wet spot on the fabric of his sleeve. The voices of his bandmates hummed in the background as he retreated into himself. The fuzzy warmth of his hoodie and blankets creating a sort of cocoon around him, the bus rumbling to life. The rocking and jostling of the road eventually lulling him into a smothering unconsciousness. The world cruel and painful outside his bunk. 

A hand was patting his shoulder. He flinched away, the heavy quilt of sleep still clouding the percussionist’s mind. The hand persistent, followed by a soft _‘Hey,’_ , Chris only groaning in response. 

“Chris, c’mon dude, I got you fries,” Jim’s quiet almost pleading voice made Chris groan again. 

_“N-not hun-gry,”_ Jim made a small exasperated sound at Chris’s sleepy voice, 

_“Please”,_ Chris only shifted, knocking the hand off his shoulder. He heard a small sad sound come from the tall guitarist, it made regret curl in his chest, he always had a soft spot for Jim. Sighing heavily before turning over as best he could, eyes blinking as the light that filtered in from the pulled back curtain nearly blinding. The light shadowing Jim’s face as it backlit him, though the percussionist could tell that the tall man was giving him one of the endearing half-smiles that had gotten the tall man out of trouble quite a few times, shaking the rumbled greasy bag that was clutched in one of his hands. Chris trying to smile back, his lips twitching up in a poor imitation. _“I-i’ll eat late-r,”_ Jim’s face went into a small frown, _“S-sor-ry, Jimm-y,”_

 _“It’s okay,”_ Jim reached a hand out to pat Chris’s shoulder again, _“I’ll save ‘em for you,”_

 _“Thank-s, peaches,”_ Jim stood, pulling the curtain closed again, Chris turning back over to huddle into himself. He was surprised he had kept himself together long enough to even speak to the tall guitarist. Grabbing the blankets and wrapping them back around himself, Chris squeezed his eyes closed. Trying to pass back out, he was lucky it was Jim and not Corey or Joey who had showed up to his bunk. They wouldn’t have been so kind. He let the rumbling of the bus rock him back to sleep. 

When he groggily blinked his eyes open again, the bus was quiet save for the engine still chugging away. Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, his stomach growling, sighing as he turned over to try and collect himself before stumbling out of his bunk. His head was foggy, the brief glimpse of the world he could see outside the bus was pitch dark, a few dancing lights in the distance. Chris stumbling into the main area of the bus, legs still not fully connected to his brain. Remembering the fries that had been offered to him earlier, his stomach making another grumbling sound. Glancing around until he saw the grimy little fridge that was shoved under one of the built-in tables. The percussionist silently yawned, popping his jaw and cringing a bit at the sound. The door of the small fridge opened with a squealing of the hinges, Chris’s stomach very happy to see the greasy paper bag Jim had offered earlier tucked away in one of the cold corners. 

Chris had plopped down on one of the threadbare couches, sitting criss-cross on the cushions. Trying to eat the cold fries slowly, in fear of throwing up again, his stomach protesting until he simply scarfed them down. Grabbing a water bottle that had been rolling half-empty across the floor of the bus, sniffing it to make sure it wasn't filled with piss or alcohol before he chugged it. Setting the empty bottle down next to him, and then relaxing back into the couch. The window across from his had the blinds rolled halfway down, the low lights from the inside of the bus reflecting off the glass. Chris didn’t know how long he stared out the window of the bus, transfixed by every single thing he could make out the shape of in the world outside, but he did stare long enough for the hue of the sky outside the glass to change to a dull bluish-gray. Early morning. He finally stood, in a bit of trance. His legs tingling with pins and needles as he limped to the back of the bus, back to the bathroom. 

He was lucky to find a medkit welded beside the pipes of the sink, balancing it on the sink as he rummaged through it. The bite on his neck may not be fatal, but covering it with some sort of patch or something might divert more unwanted questions, or at least let him blame it on something else. ‘ _They’ll all know you’re a whore anyway.’_ Chris shook his head, trying to clear away that particular thought, but he couldn’t help the small pang in his heart. The patch of gauze wasn't applied well, but it was good enough. He only needed it for a few days until the bruises faded a bit, well hopefully they would fade. A small sound of worry echoing from his chest as he used another bit of medical tape to secure the patch to his neck, some of the dried blood crumbling off under his fingers. 

_‘Y’know Chrissy, you don't have to cover it. I mean, you wanted it after all.’_ Chris sucked in a breath of air, the voice almost sounded like a distorted version of his own as it rang inside his skull; like he was going crazy. Shaking his head again, almost laughing at himself.

‘ _Poor little Chris going mad, ey? And over what, getting fucked a little too hard?’_

 _“Shut up,”_ He really was having a breakdown, talking to himself in a fucking tour bus bathroom.

_‘Awe, C’mon Chrissy. We both know you enjoyed it. The way you moaned, sounded like a groupie. Didn’t even try to stop it.’_

_“I-i trie-d,”_ Chris’s voice choked, nothing but a whisper as he looked into the mirror. Staring into his own watery eyes. 

_‘Did you? Really?’_

_“He made me vomit,”_ He was blinking back tears, he had already cried so much in the last day or so. Clutching at the edge of the sink.

_‘No. You vomited because you are a drunken whore. He cleaned you up. Could have just left you in your fucking mess.’_

He couldn’t stop the tears from carving hot trails down his face, sniffing hard as he stared at the man in the mirror. 

_‘Don’t fucking lie to yourself, Chrissy.’_

The brunette grabbed at his head, a painful sob ripped from his chest. Trying to keep as quiet as possible. 

_‘Everyone knows you fucking wanted it. ‘_

Chris stumbled back from the mirror, nearly crashing into the wall before he steadied himself. He could swear he heard faint laughter as he breathed hard, still holding his own head and squeezing his eyes shut. What felt like hours passed. The percussionist still had tears drying on his cheeks as he undid the lock to the bathroom, shuffling back to his bunk in a defeated way. Curling into the blankets again, biting hard at his own knuckle to stifle the sobs that were trying to claw their way out from his broken form. The voices bouncing and echoing in his skull, he was so close to giving in to them. Digging his teeth into the skin of his hand, drawing blood. Curling into a tighter ball. _If this was his own personal hell, it was doing a damn good job._

_God_ **_Fucking_ ** _Dammit._ He could feel every inch of his body flood with ice. The world a dull buzz, like the universe was collapsing in on itself all around him. The floor of the tour bus suddenly the most interesting thing he had ever seen as the cruel cries of laughs spun in his head. The bruise that still painted the side of his neck thrumming along with his increasing heart rate, even after a week the thing had barely faded. Someone slapping him on the shoulder,

“Oh _relax,_ Chris!” The voice muted in his ears, not even casting his eyes up from the floor to look at the Dj that was cackling beside him, “Maybe you’ll get another big ole fuckin’ bruise from Paulie!” The percussionist flinched away at the tattooed fingers that tried to poke at gauze bandages on the side of his neck that was still clinging to his skin, the Dj still chattering away as Chris glanced up from a second to look around the bus before his eyes flicked back down to the floor. Actively hoping that he would simply disappear into the bus couch that he was crammed on next to Sid and Jim, pulling his jacket hood up over his head like a moody teenager. The other men on the bus were quickly distracted by Shawn as the man resumed his rundown of the day's plans. He could feel a knot of anxiety form in his gut, his hands balling into tight fists. 

The clown had first announced that it was a hotel night, and then over the cheers had screamed the bed arrangements. Listing off the arrangements before glancing up with a mocking smile on his face, looking directly at the percussionist as he announced that Chris would be sharing a room with Paul. Corey had wolf-whistled. And the others had let out snickers of laughter. He even heard Paul snort when Corey punched the bassist in the shoulder and made an obscene comment. Even that small noise of amusement from the dark-haired man making Chris shutter. It had barely been a week since the last hotel night, typically something Chris would have complained about. But now he dreaded with every fiber of his being.

The show had gone well, though Chris’s body had been riddled with anxiety during the whole performance; nearly causing him to miss a few of his queues. The late afternoon sun blinded him for the last few songs, and thus the percussionist was not able to see the drumstick that flew to hit the side of his head. Chris stumbling and glaring at Clown, who was laughing and preparing to throw another. Chris dodging the next drumstick that came his way. He had luckily not gotten any concussion from it, he could tell. The percussionist had enough head injuries already. He had screamed as best he could, trying to let out all the pain knotting in his chest, hating to admit the small tears that formed in his eyes and cut through the greasepaint caked around his face. 

And yet, The moment he stepped off stage, the roaring of the crowd behind him, a million pounds dropped back on to Chris’s shoulders. He had only stripped his mask and jumpsuit off when they were escorted back to the bus, undoing the straps of the mask, stripping off the latex hood, and running fingers through his sweaty matted hair. As the greasepaint was scrubbed off his face, a wave of emotions washed over the percussionist. He had been avoiding the bassist all week, utterly refusing to the best of his ability to stay in the same room as the man unless absolutely mandatory. And It left a hole in the percussionist's heart, he used to sit and laugh with the man effortlessly, and now all he could do was shuffle aimlessly back to his bunk and collapse; curling into a ball and feeling sorry for himself.

The rest of his bandmates had brushed it off, if he could still play and sing, they didn’t care. Save for Jim, who had given Chris a few waves and halfhearted smiles, though the tall man was soon dragged away by Corey and Mick. The sharp comments thrown at him had hurt but now he simply shrugged. They had deemed that he was just being _‘A moody Bitch,’_ most of them leaving him alone until they thought he’d get out of his slump. Chris had only hung his head and let them say what they wanted. But clearly, due to Shawn’s cruel sorting decision, they had some ire towards him; Chris sniffing hard to get the tears to stop welling up behind his eyes. 

Chris had caught a ride with Craig to the hotel, managing to throw an overnight bag over his shoulder before ducking into the van. Chris had some desperate small hope that he could just sleep and that Paul wouldn’t bother him, maybe he could threaten to scream if anything. . . _happened._ The percussionist got an idea of locking himself in the bathroom if things got bad. The trip to the hotel went by fast as the brunette stirred over ideas in his own head, hands wrapped tight around the straps of his bag. The silent sampler gave Chris a soft pat on the shoulder and a smile as they split off to their separate rooms. The percussionist managed to unlock the door on the fourth try, his hands shaking so hard they might as well be made from Jell-O, how useless they were. Only a small bit of relief when he noticed no one else was in the room yet. _That Paul wasn't in the room yet._

The TV was flicked on, the buzz of shitty commercials in the background as Chris sat down on the edge of the bed, toeing off his shoes and socks. He sat there, head in his hands, trying to calm himself. The incessant rattling of the vents in the walls served as the occasions break to the TV, some muffled voices he didn’t recognize flitting by in the hallway. His heart rate eventually dropped back to levels that didn’t make his chest sound like a hummingbird’s. A hand combing through his matted hair reminding him that he probably did need a shower, even if he’d rather sit alone on the edge of the bed and never move again. A sigh as he made sure to grab his bag, stepping into the bathroom that was perpendicular to the door, making sure to lock the bathroom door before stripping. The patch on his neck was carefully removed and laid on the counter, the extra medical tape he had grabbed to re-secure it set next to it. He glanced at the lock again before stepping into the shower, the last thing he wanted at the moment was for anyone to walk in on him stripped naked, especially Paul. 

Using his fingers to untangle the knots in his hair, the percussionist let his eyes fall shut, the hot water pouring over him. At least it felt nice. Then his eyes shot open, he could swear he had felt a hand on his hip, fitting along the bruises that still stained the skin. A sharp cry ripped from his throat, as he twisted around to see. . . _Nothing._ There was no one there, Chris’s breathing frantic as he pulled back the curtains and saw the bathroom door still securely locked. He was not proud of the yellow that stained at water still rushing down the drain, shame flooding his face. His mind still rushed as he loosened his white-knuckled grip on the curtain, other hand moving to press a palm to one of his eyes. A shaky breath escaping the percussionist as he shifted back to stand under the showerhead, hugging his arms around himself, listening for anything besides the sound of water hitting porcelain. 

Stepping out of the shower, Chris did his best to dry himself off and slip into the clothes he had stuffed into his overnight bag. They weren’t clean, nothing really was at this point in the tour, but they were comfortable. Worn black sweatpants sitting low on his hips as he pulled on the long sleeve t-shirt with a faded logo of an old golf tournament on it. Damp hair tied up in a sloppy ponytail with shaky fingers. He glanced at the medical patch still set on the counter, his fingers were too unsteady to properly secure it, so he left it. The towels unceremoniously piled on the floor. The percussionist had gone into a sort of trance, numbed to everything as he dug a toothbrush out of his bag. Making a noise of disappointment as he searched for the toothpaste and couldn't find any, glancing around at the counter as if the hotel would maybe supply him some. _None._ Chris crouched, the squeaking of unoiled hinges as he opened the cupboards under the sink. Only dust and cobwebs greeted him, though something did catch the man’s attention. A pile in the back corner of the uncleaned cupboard consisting of rusty razor blades and a few bent safety pins. Chris wrinkled his nose, he knew this wasn't exactly a high-end establishment but he didn’t expect to see those types of things. The squeal of the hinges again before he stood, sighing as he resigned himself to only brushing with water, it was better than nothing. He did drop his toothbrush once on account of his hands still trembling. 

The brunette shoving all his things back in his bag. A twinge of anxiety back in his gut as his hand grasped at the bathroom door handle, undoing the lock with apprehension. Peering out at the room. Only some of the anxiety left him as he saw that the room was still empty, not a single other soul in sight, only the buzz of the TV which he had neglected to turn off. He set his bag down at the foot of one of the beds, hopping back up to perch on the edge, sitting cross-legged. Distracting himself with the infomercials trying to sell him various types of multi-colored wax sticks that could be bent into shapes and animals; trying to change the channel only revealed much of the same. Hours ticking away as Chris got stuck in his own little world. 

The lock clicked. And to Chris, it was the loudest sound he’d ever heard. Suddenly all plans he may have had flew out of the window, his hands knotting in the sheets of the bed, back stock straight. Ice freezing in his veins as the door was opened. 

_“Chris. . . ?”_ A string of curses ran through his head. The man stepped into the room, his clothes a bit wrinkled, a bag slung over his shoulder dropped to the floor, a small clinking of bottles inside. The scent of liquor rolling off him as he got closer to Chris who was still sitting on the edge of the bed, frozen. The bassist had been drinking, though it didn’t seem like enough to knock the man out. The percussionist felt fear gather in his gut at the smell of the alcohol, not even turning his head to look at the man. 

_It’s going to happen again Chrissy, and there nothing you can do about it._ The laughter echoing in his head made him leap to his feet. Nearly crashing into the man as he desperately tried to get the door, a strong arm reaching out to stop him. Chris was trapped, the bassist blocking the way to the door.

“Where’re you goin’, Chrissy?” The voice was rumbling, Chris almost choking as he tried to breathe. 

_“G-Gonn-a go on a-”_ He couldn’t get the air to move out his lungs. The percussionist was staring at the man’s chest, refusing to meet the dark eyes, _“Gonna go on a walk, get some frea-sh air, y'know? M-might see C-raig,”_ His words were rushed, a babbled nervous wreck. He could practically feel the bassist sneering at him. 

“You don’t have shoes on, _Chris,_ ” The percussionist's jaw tightening, making a defeated sound in the back of his throat. The bassist's head tilted down, a lopsided sneer on his lips. Chuckling lowly as he reached out a hand to touch at the bandages at the were still affixed to the bruised neck. The watery blue eyes going wide, pupils shrinking to black pinpricks. The percussionist held his breath, not a single bit of his moving as the fingers brushed over the damaged skin not covered by the patch. Then, Chris moved faster than he had ever moved before, adrenaline hot in his veins as he darted under the bassist’s arm, his brain taking a second to realize all the locks on the door had been fastened, nearly falling over as he scrambled into the bathroom instead. Slamming the door behind him and twisting the lock. He collapsed against the door, eyes still wide, face pale, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. The sound of the door handle being turned, the lock stopping the door from being opened, an unamused snort from the other side. Paul’s voice low, laced with venom as he whispered through the door, 

_“You can’t hide forever,_ **_whore,_ ** _”_ Chris squeezing his eyes shut as tears pricked at them, hands in fists beside him on the floor. The percussionist scrambling away from the locked door as Paul kicked it, muffled laughter as Chris made a surprised yelping sound. The brunette elected to curl up near the corner next to the bathtub. Pushing the towels he had dumped there hours earlier out of his way. Pressing himself against the plaster wall and the cold porcelain of the tub. Sobs jolting his body, tears soaking his face. Heart thrumming in his ears. Chris was trapped, and he knew it. 

_‘Well, almost trapped.’_ Chris only curled into a tighter ball, arms hugging at his knees. 

_“Sh-ut up,”_ His words muffled, a quiet whisper. 

_‘You’re not going to scream, the fucking bitch you are. So why not something a little different?’_

_“Sto-p,”_

_‘Remember those rusty blades, Chrissy?’_ The sound of desperation bubbling in the back of Chris’s throat, panic rising in his body. 

_‘All you gotta do is cut up your arm a bit,’_ Echoing laughing bouncing off his skull, _‘ Then dear ole Paulie will let you out, and you can get stitched up while crying your eyes out. Or maybe he’ll just let you bleed. Heck, you’ll prolly enjoy it either way._

_“N-no,”_

_‘Poor little Chrissy,’_ Mocking singsong voice the percussionist as each sob caused his body to shake. _‘What will he do?”_

The brunette sat in a state of quiet mania. His nails digging into his legs, even through the sweatpants. The sound of something fiddling with the door handle only half registering in Chris’s mind. Panic setting deep in his bones as the mechanism of the lock ticked. The door kicked open, Chris’s head snapping up to see the bassist grinning ear to ear, the credit card used to open the door thrown to the ground as the man swiftly approached the cowering percussionist. Chris’s mind clicking into full panic mode, the brunette lurching out of his position to make a desperate dive for the cabinets, wrenching it open and stretching out a hand for the rusty razor blades. The cobwebs catching on his fingers as sharp blades dug into his skin, a yowl of pain half choked out as his shirt dug into his windpipe, the other man yanking him back away from the cabinets. Dragging and flipping the percussionist onto his back, The blood already pouring from the cuts on Chris’s hand, the tile floor stained a bright red.

The bassist had straddled Chris’s hips to keep the man pinned down, though Chris writhed and trembled. The percussionist’s hands pinned above his head to the now bloody tile floor. Paul’s other hand managed to grab one of the towels and shove it into Chris’s mouth, enough to work as a gag. The percussionist threw his head back and strained against the bassist even harder, Paul only sneering down at him and digging a thumb into the painful bruises that had yet to fade on the brunette's throat. A wave of tears wetting the percussionist cheeks as he groaned, muffled as it was by the towel. 

_“Stay still, Chrissy,”_ The words growled as the thumb pressed painfully at the sensitive flesh, Chris’s body only shaking with muted sobs. The bassist, cupping the other man’s cheek as best he could and smiling down at the fearful blue eyes. _“Always making a mess, aren’t you,”_ The dark-haired man making a _‘tsk tsk’_ sound while studying the blood splattered on the tiles, the bright red liquid leaking from the wounds on the brunette's hand. Tilting his head to the side as the bassist made an amused noise. Chris flinching as the hand on his face moved to trace along an especially nasty cut right down the center of the percussionist’s palm. _“Can’t let you bleed out everywhere can we,”_ Chris’s back arching with a yelping cry as the edge of the cut was stretched, a gush of blood flooding out as Paul chuckled. The percussionist swearing he could hear a _‘Well at least not yet,’_ whispered under the man’s breath, though he didn’t register it. The hand, now with stains of Chris’s blood moved back to smear the crimson over Chris’s cheek. Paul’s voice a soft purr, 

_“So pretty,”_ Chris tried to squirm away as the man leaned closer, _“Now, stay still, Chrissy,”_ The threat was clear as day even with the pain clouding Chris’s head. Then the pressure pinning him down was gone, the hand holding his wrists gone as well. But he still felt pinned to the floor regardless, eyes watching the man disappear around the door frame. Chris willing his injured hand to move and remove the towel from his mouth, Chris coughing hard and turning his head to the side, squeezing his eyes shut. A snort from the other man as he entered the room, moving back to straddle Chris’s hips, the percussionist letting out a small groan. The wounded hand was still unmoving above his head, save for the occasion twitch of the fingers. Some of the smaller cuts were now only leaking blood, though the largest cut on Chris’s palm had made a small pool in his hand. Paul taking the towel Chris had once been gagged with and using it to apply pressure on to the cut. Chris closing his eyes and hissing at the pain. 

Eventually, the wound lessened its bleeding, the bassist removing the towel, which was now soaked in crimson. Chris whimpered as he saw the man dig something out of his pocket, it was what he had left the room to get; A small glass bottle of vodka, maybe the size of three of the bassist's large fingers. Chris’s eyes went wide, Before he could move his injured hand away, it’s wrist was grabbed and held firm, the bottle dropped onto his chest, rolling off onto the tile, though it didn’t break. The other tan hand grabbed hard at Chris’s jaw, squeezing hard enough for Chris to moan and squirm. The percussionist uninjured hand clutching onto Paul’s wrist, trying to wrench the hand off his jaw. Paul sneering. 

_“You want your fucking hand infected, Chris?_ Have to explain to everyone how clumsy you are, sticking your hand in a cabinet and slicing yourself all up, _huh,_ Then not even cleaning th _e wound? Clumsy Fuckin’ Chrissy,”_ The hand on the percussionist’s jaw painful, drool sliding from the corner of Chris’s mouth as he tried to gurgling something out. His voice trembling and weak. 

_“Fuck you,”_ Paul letting out a cruel bark of laughter, Chris only looked up at him with a mixture of fear and hate in his watery eyes. 

“ _Oh, Chrissy,_ maybe soon,” Any newfound confidence spurred on by the adrenaline still running through the percussionist’s veins was crushed. Chris could feel fear overtaking the hate that once boiled in his gut. His hand going limp around the bassist's wrist. The man finally letting go of Chris’s jaw with an amused snort. The percussionist's pulse throbbed in his injured hand as Paul grabbed a hand towel, shoving it into Chris’s mouth, the metallic taste thick on his tongue. Then grabbing the bottle, twisting the cap off with his teeth, spitting it across the bathroom as Chris squirmed. “This is gonna _hurt_ ,” The towel in the brunette's mouth clenched between his teeth, _“But I’m sure you’ll enjoy it,”_ The percussionist not even able to process the snide comment before agony ripped through his body, causing his back to arch violently and his other hand to go white-knuckled. The rest of the alcohol in the bottle poured over his wounds, the hand twitching violently as he was held steady in Paul’s grip. Chris cried out, though it was muted by the towel, eyes screwed shut even as tears ran down from them. 

Paul calmly set the bottle down on the counter and grabbed another hand towel, running it under the sink for a few seconds. He had left Chris trembling on the ground, the ribbons of pain shooting through his flesh and bones. Not able to move if he wanted too, flinching and whimpering as the towel was dabbed around the wounds to clear some of the alcohol that burned deep in his skin. The bassist scanned the room, eyes settling on the medical tape and patch that Chris had left on the counter much earlier, a smile stretching his lips, settling the towel down so he could reach out a long arm to grab them. Small muffled mewls from Chris as his hand was moved, the patch pressed to his palm, the tape securing it in place. Paul also covered some of the other cuts in medical tape, like a substitute bandaid. Once Paul had finished with the cuts he set the tape down, moving both his hands to cup Chris’s face, a sneer on the dark-haired man’s face. 

Chris gasped hard as the man above him ground his hips down, a shameful blush covering the percussionist’s face as he realized that Paul had been right. Clearly, some disgusting part of him had enjoyed the pain. His dick straining against the fabric of his sweatpants. A moan ripped from him as Paul ground his hips down again, the bassist’s ass pushing against Chris’s groin. The percussionist’s shivering as he felt the long sleeve t-shirt he was wearing being pushed up to expose first his belly, then all the way up to expose his chest, it bunched right below his collar bones. A hand grazing over the marks already left on his abdomen, then up to the piercings, Chris had through his nipples. The brunette only screwed his eye shut tighter as fingers traced around one of his nipples and then trapped it between two of the fingers, pinching the sensitive flesh. Chris moan muffled by the towel wedged in his mouth, arms limp and useless. Feeling shame burn in his stomach as metal rods were rolled between the tan fingers. He was going to be fucked again, and it felt like there was nothing he could do to stop it. 

The bassist pinched at the pink buds, Chris’s body jolting in response. The percussionist’s jaw set, his teeth biting into the towel as he tried to stop any sound from escaping him. Which only prompted Paul to pinch harder at the sensitive buds, massaging the flesh of Chris’s chest in his large hands until he got another groan out of the man under him. Twisting one of the nipples in a way that made Chris whine, the pain spiking the brunette's chest. Chris’s hair had fallen loose from its ponytail, tangled against the tile around his head, a hand moving to knot in it to tilt Chris’s head to the side. The percussionist’s uninjured hand balling into a fist as fingers trailed along the bruising on his neck, each tooth had left behind a mark. The skin hot to the touch. Paul clicked his tongue, 

_“Cute,”_ Chris whimpered, the hand ghosted over his cheek, which had the dried smear of blood on it, the edges peeling off the skin. Paul shifted, moving off the percussionist, and instead choosing to kneel beside the brunette trembling form. A hand moving to pull down the percussionist’s sweatpants, Chris’s pupils nearly disappeared as his body went into panic mode. He couldn’t control when his arm swung to hit the other man directly across the face, it was sloppy but hard enough to snap the dark-haired man’s face to one side. Chris's arm then caught and slammed against the floor. Paul’s eyes were closed, lips twisting into a snarl. Chris’s body tensing, eyes going so wide they might as well popped out of their sockets, breathing frantic. Paul brought his other hand up to wipe at his lip, a small bit of blood staining his skin. Chris flinched at the grin that crossed Paul’s face, the man’s mouth diluted with blood which Chris could see as the lips stretched wide, the piercings in his lip gleaming. _“Oh, we’re playing_ **_that_ ** _type of game, Chrissy?”_

Chris yelped as the sweatpants were ripped off him, tossed in the corner of the room, the man quickly ripping off the long sleeve shirt as well, the tearing of stitches could be heard. Chris felt his wrist being bound above his head by the selves of the shirt, wrapped so tight he was sure they would lose blood flow if they were even the smallest bit tighter. Finally, the bassist settled, kneeling between Chris’s legs, which were moved apart and propped up on Paul’s hips. Chris groaned, still in shock as he felt the towel shove further into his mouth, drool soaking the thing. The percussionist’s dick lay heavy and leaking against his belly, much to his humiliation. 

Hands trailing up Chris’s ribs and up towards his neck, then leaving his skin. The percussionist holding his breath. Then Chris’s head snapped to the side, the side of his face colliding with the bloody tiles. Pain blooming all across his skull, a cry caught in his throat, reduced to a muted gurgling sound. Vision swimming, he could taste blood and the smallest hint of stomach acid burning his throat. A hand grabbing at his saw and holding his face up, Chris could feel the blood pooling in the back of his throat, trying to cough before the other side of his face was struck. Skull crashing into the tiles, and ringing in his ears. A deep gurgling as his body jolted, eyes going blurry and unfocused. Choking on the blood in his mouth as a hand knotted in his hair and dragged him up, the gag pulled from his mouth, a wash of blood and spit dripping down his chin, his eyes rolled into the back of his head, jaw slack. Paul chuckled as he cradled the back of Chris’s neck, the percussionist arms at an awkward angle bent behind his head. Chris felt finger’s press to his tongue, the blood and drool coating the digits as they sunk into the back of his throat, his gag reflex kicking in causing his body to seize around the intrusion. 

Another rumbling chuckle from Paul as he removed his fingers from the percussionist's throat, a thick string of saliva hanging from Chris’s lips. The percussionist blinking slowly as he was lower back to the ground, his only relief was that he wasn't dropped. His head still hazy, eyes glassy. The floor pressing to his back. The mixture that had spilled from his mouth coated his chest and belly, rivulets of clear and crimson mixtures tracing the line so his abdomen. Paul moved back, at an angle so he could hike up one of the percussionist’s legs, the knee bending up. A desperate whine in the percussionist’s throat, as he was exposed, hips shifting as if weaky trying to escape.

Chris, despite his current state, trembled and mewled as one of the slicked fingers pressed against his asshole. A finger rubbing over the tight ring of muscle before pushing in. The percussionist's legs trying to close, an echoing groan from the brunette’s throat. Mind screaming protests as the finger dipped further into him, though his mouth only produced muted whispers. Paul’s other hand was petting at the skin of Chris’s thigh, a sneer on his face as he slammed the finger all the way into Chris just to see the man’s reaction, the warm heat of the percussionist’s body tensing around the digit as he yelped. The brunette’s chest heaving as a second finger was pushing into his unwilling body, the mad above him watching as Chris’s head rolled back and forth on the tiled floor and gargled string of _no’s_ drooling from his lips. 

He knew it was useless to complain, but he couldn’t help the words that spilled from his bloody mouth. The digits curling inside of him as if trying to spur more refusal from his lips, hot tears spilling down the flushed cheeks and mingling with the blood and saliva on the tiled floor. The pads of the fingers grazing over his prostate, his body jolting, the other hand digging into the flesh of his already bruised hip. He could hear the sound of a zipper, exhaling sharply as a louder plea spilled from his lips,

_“No-o. . . Pleas-se, no, n-ot aga-,”_

_“Chris.”_ The voice cutting him off, soft but with an edge of cruelty. The hand leaving Chris’s hip to grab something, _“Look at me,”_ The brunette tried to crane his neck in a way to obey the man, his hands trembling when he saw what the man was holding. The glass bottle that had once held the vodka used to clean Chris’s wounds was held in Paul’s hand. The man tilting his head as he studied it. Chris couldn’t even begin to process what kind of sick ideas were stirring in the man’s head, a shiver running up his spine. 

“Chrissy. . .” The bottle caught the fluorescent light of the bathroom, _“If you don’t stop whining, I’m going to fuck you with this until it breaks.”_ The finger’s in him curling, nails grazing at his inner walls. _“Little shards of glass inside you, cutting you up. They’ll have to pick them out one,”_ The bassist taped his nail against the glass, _“By,”_ Tap. _“_ **_One,_ ** _”_ Tap. Chris made a sound of utter defeat, letting his eyes fall shut. Then the cold glass was pressing into his belly, the bottle held firmly, Chris whimpered again. _“You understand, don't you?”_ Chris couldn’t get his mouth to work, instead trying to nod. Though that didn’t seem to satisfy the bassist. _“Answer me,_ **_Whore._ ** You’re not _that_ stupid are you?” The glass pressed further into the soft skin of his belly. _“_ Or maybe you want that. _Feeling of glass breaking inside you, shredding your insides,”_ Chris gagging out what few words he could, 

_“I-_ i unde-r _st-_ ta _nd!”_ An amused snicker from the dark-haired man. Settle the bottle down beside them, hand moving to cup Chris’s chin. 

“I love the way you sound, _Chrissy,_ ” The brunette whimpered as a third blood and spit slicked finger pushed into him, the stretch burning up his body, he hated to admit that a small bit of him liked the pain of it. The voice reverberated through him, _“So pretty and broken,”_ The fingers pumped slowly in and out of the trembling body, thigh muscles twitching as the percussionist insides were slowly worked open. Despite this when the finger pulled away, Chris knew he hadn’t been stretched enough for what came next to not be painful. Trying to steel what little control he had left, biting hard at his lip. The sound of a zipper making his mouth run dry, willing himself to not whine and cry out. The sound of shifting fabric, before the cruel familiarity of a steel ring rubbed at his entrance. The bloody spit used to lube him before smearing onto the gleaming silver. He couldn’t help a small whimper that escaped him as the head of the cock pressed just the tiniest bit into his ass. The burning of his muscles only increasing at the cock was slowly pushed into his body. Chris’s mind flashing memories of the night a week before, with each a rush of shame running through his body. The tears spilling down his cheeks silently. 

One of the large hands kneading at the fat of Chris’s thigh. The bassist’s hips rolling into the shuddering warm body, Chris letting out a small mewl as the piercings grazed at his insides. Agonizing torture forcing Chris to bite back whines, his toes curling when the bassist bucked his hips, one of the barbell piercings catching on the brunette's hole, making the percussionist gasp, his dick leaking onto his belly. The precum sticky against his pale sweaty skin. Paul let out a deep grunt, his patience running thin as he snapped his hips forward, finally burying himself deep inside Chris’s guts. The man below him yelping, his back arching as the hips slammed into his own. Chris’s head felt like it was stuffed with cotton, the cock in his guts pulsating waves of heat. The percussionist felt the deep knot of familiar humiliation twist painfully in his chest, a sob choked out of him as Paul rocked his hips. His dark eyes scanning over Chris’s body; smile sharp, some blood still staining his teeth from earlier. 

The dark-haired man reaching a hand up to ghost over Chris’s chest, pinching one of the pierced nipples between his fingers as he rolled his hips into the percussionist’s body, the man gasping. The bassist really did love all the little sounds Chris would make, the muffled crying and whimpers from the brunette making his hips buck forward, only to draw another whimper out of the man below him. Chris’s arms bent at an awkward age above his chest, his chest heaving with shuddering breaths as the dick started to move in his boiling guts, hips connecting with his, the tan hand on his chest drawing a yelp from the percussionist as it pinched painfully as his pierced nipples. 

The pace of the bassist thrusts teetering on the edge between agonizingly slow and painfully fast, Chris squirming as the cock was pulled nearly all the way out of his insides, only to be slammed back in with enough force to make the percussionist choke and drool. A cruel slow and then fast torture that made pain spike through his body; his heart twisting as he looked through half-lidded eyes for a just a second up at the dark-haired man, the sight of the dark chocolate eyes and wide grin made everything hurt even more. The brunette screwing his water blue eyes shut with a small noise of misery on his tongue. 

A hand moving to pet at Chris’s cheek, the flesh already starting to show signs of trauma from earlier. An ugly deep purplish-red blooming under tear-stained skin. Paul’s fingers ghosting over Chris’s jaw, the man under him sniveling when the hand cupped his injured face, running a thumb over the cheekbone, the bassist humming. Another jolt of Chris’s body as an especially hard thrust made his insides tense up, mouth falling open in obscene sound. Chris couldn’t help it, and it made a deep feeling of shame boil in his gut. His mind then pulled away from any comprehensive thoughts as both of Paul’s hands cupped Chris’s face. The bassist leaned in to kiss the percussionist, spit, and blood in both of their mouths, the distinctive taste of liquor on Paul’s tongue working its way into Chris’s throat. Any sounds that Chris made immediately swallowed into the bassist's mouth. A low growl in Paul’s chest as he pulled away from the whimpering percussionist, a wicked smile stretching his mouth, the double piercings in his lip glittering. 

Chris’s face relaxed a small amount as the bucking of the bassist's hips slowed, eventually stopping with his cock buried fully into the percussionist, who was still twitching and limp on the bathroom floor, arms tied above his head. A feeling of dread seeping into the percussionist's veins as he heard the squeaky hinges of the cabinet doors, weakly rolling his head to the side, now able to see as Paul used a long arm to reach inside the cabinet. Paul made a humming sound as he carefully grabbed one of the rusty razor blades, Chris’s blood already smudging its surface. Chris’s breathing frantic as his eyes widened, his mind plummeting into panic, forgetting all warnings he had been given. Any pleas that could have crossed his lips cut off by the man’s voice, the dark eyes locking with Chris’s. 

“ _Better stay still for this, Chrissy,_ _don't want your clumsiness to cause any more incidents,”_ Any opportunity to plead once again with the man stripped away from Chris as the towel used to gag him before was solved back in between his wet lips, breathing hard through his nose as he tried to calm down; feeling the bassist’s free hand trailing down his stomach. Chris moaning into the gag as a hand touched his throbbing sensitive dick, even the smallest touch to the flushed leaking head making his muscles shiver and tense. 

The first small graze of the rusty unsharpen blade against his skin barely drew blood, it was right above his left hip, Chris trying to stay as still as he could as the hand holding the blade moved up to nip the skin of his sides. The other hand still grazed over his dick as if trying to get him to tremble and cause himself unintentional wounds as the razor scratched along his abdomen. A deeper line traced into the skin by his nipple, Chris flinched and groaned into the spit-soaked towel, hot tears starting to well in his eyes again. Crimson blood beading at the slit. A cry tearing Chris’s raw throat as another five lines were sliced into his skin. The shape of a crudely cut bleeding heart now carved into him, the blood trailing in thin lines down his chest.

His jaw clenching down on the towel as his senses were overwhelmed, the pain of the cuts, the fingers still teasing at his cock, and now the bassist's hips slowly rolling into him; made his mind go blank for a second. Watery blue eyes squeezed shut so hard that they might never open again. The hand on his dick moving off to pet at the skin of his hip, trying to calm him. Paul crooning something Chris couldn’t hear as some of his muscles relaxed under the soft touches, mewling sounds trapped in his throat. A soft whisper cleaving through his fuzzy mind and ringing in his ears, 

_“Stay_ **_very_ ** _still, Chrissy,”_ The words emphasized by the razor digging in the skin of his belly, deeper than any of the other cuts before. Chris’s head filled with panic, was the bassist finally going to kill him? Put the percussionist out of his fucking misery? Disembowel Chris with his cock still deep in the percussionist's guts? _Would Paul fuck his corpse?_ The brunette hated the shiver that darted up his spine at the thought. Fear pooling in his body as the blade was dragged in a slightly diagonal line down the left side of his abdomen. Chris was too lost in the pain to try and figure out what the bassist's intentions were, his body trying to thrash as the agony grew, a cry muffled and barely above a whisper in his throat. Paul’s other hand held him down as he carved the final slice into the abdomen. Grinning down at Chris’s broken bloody form. 

From hip bone to hip bone and stretching up towards his belly button, the word _‘Whore’_ was carved into Chris’s soft belly. Thick crimson blood oozing from the wounds as Chris trembled and cried. Hot tears spilling down his face and into the tangled sweaty hair around his head. Chris’s dick twitched, coated in a mixture of precome and blood. Leaking pearly fluid to mix with the blood seeping from the word cut into his lower belly. Some of the blood trickling down to wet his groin and the inside of his thighs. Paul set down the razor on the counter next to them. Running both his hands down Chris’s sides, finally gripping at the percussionist’s hips. Fingers digging into the skin, pulling at the flesh and forcing the wounds to open a little, fresh blood seeping out, the edges tearing a small bit. Paul had known how deep to cut so he didn't send Chrisy to the hospital, though he fought not to cut deeper into the soft lovely skin, the percussionist’s whimpers and cries driving the dark-haired man crazy, well _more_ crazy. The bassist’s hips shifted, Chris biting at the towel in his mouth, arms shaking. He could feel the cock inside him move once again, it felt a thousand times more painful, and yet the movement also sent waves of pleasure to hit Chris like a baseball bat. His throat raw. 

The pace of the bassist’s thrusts gradually increased to a manic pace, Chris’s legs wrapped around his waist, thighs trembling as they pressed against Paul’s sides. Each slam of the man’s hips making his whole body shake, a whimpering moan from the percussionist’s chest along with it. With every movement of his body the nerves of his belly screamed in pain, though no muffled begging and pleading from Chris would stop Paul’s thrusts. The man growled; the feeling of Chris’s insides around him, the inner muscles of the percussionist tensing and tight. The cuts and blood on the percussionist's belly making Paul’s own stomach twist with pleasure. The hands had a bruising grip on Chris. 

Chris’s mind was far away, a glassy look in his half-lidded eyes, no longer even bothering to control the sounds and words that tried to escape him, only to be muted by the gag. He tried to escape his limp body, only to be dragged forcefully back by the agony of every buck of the dark-haired man’s hips, and the sharp incessant pain of the cuts on his stomach. Paul’s thrusts becoming harder, cock fucking into Chris as a snarling sound echoed from his pierced lips, the bassist was getting closer and closer to his peak. And Chris, as much as he hated it, was reaching his own peak as well. He had tried to stave the orgasm off, some misguided hope in his mind that if he held the thing off for long enough that this would all end, but he knew from the start that he would fail. Shame and humiliation cutting deeper than a razor ever could.

A hand wrapped around Chris’s dick, no longer teasing as it stroked the sensitive erection to near match the bassist’s pace, Chris mewling and rolling his head back. One of the piercings in the bassist's dick repeatedly rubbing over Chris’s prostate. The orgasm fiery in his lower belly, hot coils writhing within his body. Every muscle stiffening, his toes curling as a long moan ripped from his throat, if not for the towel shoved in his mouth his teeth would have cracked as his jaw muscles contracted. Fresh tears spilling from his eyes, his hips jolting and trying to fuck up into the tight fist as sticky fluid splattered onto his bloody cut up belly. Another wave of pain rolling over him as the cum stung the wounds, his body thrashing, whimpers trapped in his esophagus. The bassist only spurred on by the obscene show below him, the percussionist going limp as the dark-haired man continued to buck into him. The afterglow of the orgasm numbed the brunette for a few precious moments, though he still felt the biting pain gnawing at his nerves. The percussionist’s form treated little more than a fucktoy for the bassist. 

An animalistic howling sound resounding through the bathroom, reverberating off the tiles as Paul buried himself as deep as he could into the trembling bloody mess of a body below him. Hand clawing at Chris’s thighs, nails leaving harsh red marks along the skin. Chris’s inner muscles unconsciously clamping around the cock, burning hot fluid spilling into his guts. The man’s hips thrusting into him a few more times as the ejaculant coated the percussionist's insides, the dick fucking the fluid further into his defenseless form. The feeling made his brain flash the memory of the night a week ago, the first time the bassist’s cum had slicked his insides. Chris's body shuddering at the memory. 

The bassist's hips stuttered to a halt, heavy panting breaths making his chest heave, his head tilting down. Dark chocolate eyes warm in the midst of his afterglow, hands gently petting over Chris’s hips and sides. Voice purring, as his finger traced through the blood and ejaculant on Chris’s belly, grazing down the edge of the ‘ _W’_ carved into the slick skin. 

_“What a dirty masochistic bitch you are, Chrissy,”_ Chris could only hear the faint buzzing of the words in his skull, not able to grasp what the bassist had said. _“So perfect,_ **_all bloody and cut up_ ** _,”_ The words were purred low and intimate, Chris still tried to process what they meant even as his body shuddered at just the tone of the bassist's velvety voice, an underlying hint of steely possessiveness to the words. _It scared him, down to the very core._

He could feel the bassist shift, a quiet chuckle from the man while the hands left his body. Only managing to choke out a mewl as the cock was pulled out of him, the muscles of his legs tensing, his insides slick and empty. Some of the bassist ejaculant dripping out of him, most still fucked deep into his guts, the angle helping keep it inside him. Only when the cold distinct feeling of glass pressed against his asshole did Chris manage to yelp, trying to squirm away from the base of the icy glass bottle. 

_“Shhhh, Chrissy, it’s okay,”_ The hand not holding the bottle coming up to pet the side of Chris’s face, as the thing pressed to the rim of his entrance and was slowly pushed into him. The slick of the bassist ejaculant helping it settle into Chris; the ring of muscle tightening around the neck of the bottle as Paul twisted it inside of Chris. The percussionist moaning breathlessly as the cold smooth glass felt foreign and strange inside his guts. The idea of the bassist simply punching Chris right in the already bloody and sliced up stomach and forcing the glass to shatter inside him made fear claw at the brunette’s already unstable mind. Chris squeezed his eyes shut while making a useless begging sound, though instead of more agony, there was only a soft chuckle. 

The sound rustled fabric as the bassist moved out from between Chris’s legs, allowing them to finally fall onto the floor and move back together with a groan. Chris’s knees knocked together, a whimper in his throat as the bottle shifted its position just slightly inside of him, worry still heavy in his head. The sound of the sink running, then he sensed Paul kneeling beside him. The bassist gentle fingers ghosting across Chris’s sweaty forehead, brushing the hair away from the flushed skin. The damp feeling of a towel brushed down his chest, cleaning off the blood and drooling there. Chris shivering as the fibers cleaned the heart that had been carved around one of his nipples. Then moving further down his abdomen to start to clean away the blood and cum that coated his belly. Every touch, no matter how gentle, over the sensitive skin and wounds made Chris whimper, tears spilling down his face. Paul making a sound Chris couldn't identify the meaning behind and wiped away some of the tears with his hand. 

The slow agony mounted as more and more of his stomach was cleaned, the towel cleaned and re soaked in cold water a few times as the mess of Chris’s lower belly and groin was washed off. The thin lines of the cuts contrasting hard with his pale skin, the raised redness of the letters spelling out exactly what Chris was for everyone who saw them. A gentle kiss was pressed to Chris’s forehead, the hand cupping his cheek and stroking lightly over the skin of his face. 

_“I’ll be back in a second, Chrissy,”_ Another soft kiss, this time on Chris’s cheek, the lips pressing to his skin providing a small comfort. The bassist moved to leave the bathroom while Chris’s head lulled to one side, the gag still shoved in his mouth, his body wracked with exhaustion; almost slipping into unconsciousness right there on the bloody bathroom floor. 

_“Chrissy,”_ A hand ghosting over his cheek, and then down his neck, flitting across his collarbones, then back up his neck. _“This is gonna hurt,”_ Chris’s eyes shot open, his back arching against the tile, a cry of distress ripping from the brunette's chest. The burn of alcohol in his wounds, a hundred times worse than when it stung his hand. Tears, for what felt like the hundredth time that night, pricking his eyes as it felt like his belly was on fire. Black splotches dancing at the edge of his vision. The agony overwhelmed his mind, letting the darkness consume his scenes, a long whine crawling from his throat before he passed out. 

  
  


The first thing Chris noticed was the absence of the hard tiles pressing to his skin, instead replaced by a cushy mattress, the blankets moved over of the way so his naked form laid on his back on the sheets. Noticing a towel laid under his hips. The percussionist blinked his eyes open, his eyelashes fluttering as he squinted around the room. The only light shining around the corner where the bathroom door was open, fluorescent light dimly illuminating the bed where Chris lay. The percussionist’s head propped up on pillows, mind felt like it was swimming through thick molasses, his jaw aching; though the gag had been luckily removed. His arms laying limp and sore at his side, his wrists aching, injured hand throbbing under the patch. His face tilted, so he could glance down at his stomach, medical tape used to keep shut all of the major cuts on his abdomen, the sticky tape would hold for a long time even if the pain would be incessant. A crust of scabs already forming over some of the edges of the cuts. The bottle was still jammed inside him, keeping him open and sensitive. Chris rolled his head against the pillow and let a quiet whined slip from his throat. 

He could hear a movement from the bathroom, Paul emerging from behind the wall to glance at Chris, a warm smile on his face. The bassist had changed into sweatpants, his chest bare, Chris watching the man as he approached and sat on the bed next to the percussionist. One of the tan hands cupping Chris’s jaw and grazing a thumb over the cheekbone, Chris making a small sound in the back of his throat. 

_“Hello, Chrissy,”_ The watery blue eyes tracing the bassist's face as his head tilted into the tan hand’s touches. He could see the light bruise that had formed on the dark-haired man’s cheekbone, Chris sure his own face looked much worse. But that didn’t matter at the moment; the gentle touches disarming Chris in a way he couldn’t bring himself to despise. The percussionist mewled,

 _“Paulie. . . “_ His voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, the chocolate eyes staring into his. Chris shifting his hips and making a small distressed noise as the glass moved inside him. His already aching insides pulsating around the glass, though he didn’t dare try to reach down and remove it himself. 

A flash of understanding passed over Paul’s face, the bassist smiling down at him. _“You want me to take it out?”_ The hand on Chris’s face wandered down to the taped cuts on his belly, the percussionist exhaling sharply and making another small desperate sound as a finger traced along the edge of one of the deeper cuts, the wound still oozing a small amount of blood. _“Is that what you want, Chrissy,”_ The percussionist nodded frantically, a gurgling whimper bubbling from his raw throat as the hand left his belly and moved to slip between his spread thighs. His legs bent upwards, hips at an angle so that the hand could grip the neck of the glass bottle that was still shoved inside Chris’s trembling sore body, keeping much of the ejaculant within his aching guts. 

The glass was twisted insides of him, a gasping sound from his chest as it was shoved just a small bit deeper. Chris dreading having it removed and dreading it staying buried in him. His teeth grit together, jaw muscles protesting with an ache. The bottle was being pulled out of him at a deliberately agonizing pace, the thing restretching his already oversensitive entrance. His elbows dug into the bed and he arched off of it, a raw throaty moan passing through his grit teeth. Not noticing that he had moaned the bassist name as the bottle was finally removed from him. Thigh and stomach muscles jumping as he collapsed back on the bed, his head rolling back onto the pillows, his hair wild around his face. A mess of slick coated his inner thighs, drooling out of him onto the towel that had been placed under him on the bed. Despite the bottle removed Chris could still feel the bassist’s ejaculant deep inside him, the percussionist’s nose scrunching up, a soft noise from his lips. His jaw unclenched as he gasped quietly, his legs closing, inner muscles twitching as his body was once again empty and even more oversensitive. The percussionist’s unstable mind nearly missing the feeling of something being buried in his guts, almost delirious enough to beg Paul to shove the bottle back into his bruised and cut up body. Though all that managed to drool from his mouth was a few weak moans. 

The towel was removed out from under his hips, some of the slick also mopped from the back of his thighs, then Chris felt lips kissing at his bruised cheek. His body and mind fuzzy with exhaustion as the lips kissed over his cheekbone, his eye fluttering all the way shut and his head tilting so his other cheek rested against the pillow. The lips left his skin, the slight shifting of fabric as the soft blankets were pulled over his bare body. A hand petting his forehead as he felt unconsciousness start to invade his mind, his body already limp and unmoving. A voice purring to him as Chris spilled into a dreamless sleep,

_“I love you, Chrissy,”_

A thrumming ache wormed its way through every single molecule of Chris’s body. Every cut in his skin burning, every bruise staining his skin painful. His body felt used and raw. Eyes not blinking open even as cruel awareness rolled over him. Chris felt strong arms wrapped around his middle, the pleasant warmth of the other man’s body pressed to his back, the percussionist’ body having been moved so he laid on his side. Paul’s head right behind Chris’s, his cheek pressing into the brunette’s tangled hair, the man’s gentle breathing claiming Chris just the smallest bit, which he knew instinctively was wrong, though he couldn’t help but feel strangely safe in the man’s arms, if not just for this moment.

Then a shiver ran up Chris’s spine, he finally registered why he had woken up, the other man’s hips were grinding against him. Through the bassist’s sweatpants, Chrisy could feel an erection pressing against his bare ass, a sharp exhale from the man as Chris tried to move away only to have the arms tighten around his waist. Chris was fairly certain that Paul was still mostly asleep, even as the man's hips ground into Chris and soft mutter slipped from his pierced lips. The percussionist let out a quiet choking sound as the skin of his belly moved and caused the cuts to sting with pain. The chocolate eyes blinking open as Chris squirmed, the percussionist’s already sore ass pressed to Paul’s groin. The bassist's eyes only half-opened as he cuddled closer to Chris, who had stopped squirming, though sleepy whimpers spilled from his lips. The light caramel skin of the bassists chest pressing to Chris’s back, a groggy purr reverberating down the percussionist’s body, 

_“Love you,”_ Chris in slight shock at the words, a small gasp from his lips. The bassist shifted, one of his arms unwrapped from around Chris and moving down to pull his arousal out of his sweatpants. The thing pushing in between Chris’s ass cheeks, the barbell piercings rubbed across the fucked out hole; still slick and stretched from earlier. The percussionist whimpered as the piercings repeatedly grazed over the highly sensitive area. His arms, which were still sore and felt like they were made from jello, grabbed at the sheets of the bed. The tip of the cock eventually moving to press against the asshole, Chris only managing a quiet groan, mind still hazy from sleep. And now being sent in a spiral as overstimulation and pain fizzled through his nerves, making his brain short circuit. The dick sliding into him, still painful even with the slick of ejaculant that still coated his insides. Chris choking, his brian not able to make words come out of his mouth, only a useless dribble of moans from his throat. 

The dick pushing into his mess of a body at an agonizingly slow pace. Chris drooling onto the pillow with as the cock was fucked into him, every _fucking_ inch making his brain short circuit and buzz just a little bit more; he could swear the dick was already in his throat. The cock finally buried up to the hilt in him, almost familiar in a cruel way; the piercings grazing at his wrecked insides. Paul’s voice was gravelly in his ears, the bassist gentle as his hands petted over Chris’s flushed skin, 

_“You’re so p-perfect, angel,”_ It was the first time the bassist's voice had truly stuttered as he held Chris’s body close, rolling his hips just the tiniest bit. The percussionist making a desperate sound at even the small amount of movement in his guts. The new nickname barely processed in his head as the cock slowly fucked into him at a torturously slow pace, never pulling out of him completely before sinking back into his open pulsating insides. _“So pretty,”_ Chris panted, not bothering to stop the whimpers as his body shuddered in Paul’s arms. _“Such a good whore,”_ Finger’s brushed over the taped shut cuts on Chris’s stomach, he could feel a small bit of blood trickle out of some of them, the blood once again staining his skin in crimson trails. 

_“I love you so much, Chrissy,”_ The gravelly purrs reverberating in Chris’s skull, warm lips pressing to the bruised skin of his neck, peppering everything the bassist could reach in gentle kisses. So soft and comforting that Chris moaned. The cuts throbbing on his stomach served as a reminder of the kind of pain the man could inflict on him, and yet at the same moment, the tender lips on his skin, and the caresses over his sides made his brain spin with confusion. Though the pleasure won out as a quiet moan spilled from his lips as the man kissed right under his ear at the sensitive flesh, crooning something into the flushed skin. Chris made a desperate sound as the piercings rubbed over his prostate, sending spikes of burning pleasure curling through his guts. As much as he hated it, he could feel his cock hard and throbbing between his thighs, he refused to touch it. Only locking its hands in the sheets and mewling. The wish that the bassist would have just gutted him on the bathroom floor coming back to him, tears welling in his eyes, silent spilling down his cheeks. He was surprised that he could still cry at all.

 _“An adorable little slut,”_ Each of the words followed by a kiss to Chris’s skin, the hips still slowly fucking into him, a whimper from his throat. A hand gentle caressing down to lay over his lower belly, the small drops of blood that had formed smeared across his skin. _“Feel so fucked out,”_ Chris felt shame burn on his face. _“So good, Chrissy,”_ The words drawn out in a long purr as the bassist dared to jolt his hips forward, making the brunette cry out before he returned to his torturing pace. 

Chris didn’t know how long it had been, it felt like hours. The only thing keeping him from slipping away was the persistent rolling of the dark-haired man’s hips into him and the hands and mouth on his skin, pain, and sick pleasure trapping Chris in his body. Finally, the hips were slammed into him, the arms wrapped tight around his middle, a loud gasp from Chris’s mouth. Nails digging into his skin as Paul growled into Chris’s neck. Chris mewled at the feeling of hot ejaculant spilling into his guts, adding to the mess already in his body. The brunette’s leg muscles twitched, soft breaths from his mouth as Paul moaned out Chris’s name and sunk his teeth just the smallest bit into the sensitive skin of the percussionist’s throat. Chris’s back arching a small bit, the percussionist making a desperate pornographic moaning sound as Paul panted, bucking his hips a few more times into the brunette. The slick of the cum coating Chris’s insides for the second time that night, the percussionist felt used; humiliation making him chew at his lip and screw his eye shut, sadness brewing in him. Everything felt sore and painful, even the soft touch of the bassist's hands; one of them slid over his hip, though it did not touch the leaking erection between the brunette’s thighs. A trembling gasp on Chris’s lips, almost begging. 

The percussionist was held closer to the bassist, their skin salty with sweat; Paul’s breath tickling the brunette’s ear. 

_“I love you, Chris,”_ Lips kissed at Chris’s shoulder, the voice muttering into the rosy skin, _“My favorite little whore,”_

_And with those words, Chris was truly and utterly broken._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dont Get On My Ass, You Read it After All


	3. Sugar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> thiswassupposedtobeashortchapter.txt

Chris woke up to fingers caressing his stomach. Eyelashes fluttering as his eyes blinked open, the room lit by morning sun shining in through the slivers around the half-shut curtains. Warm comforting arms wrapped around him, the hand tracing along his belly in small circles, Chris only reminded of the wounds carved into his skin when the finger occasionally brushed over them and caused pain to spark in his nerves. The percussionist could feel shallow movements of the man’s chest, Chris’s head tucked right under the bassist's chin, their legs tangled together. Chris made a near-silent sound in the back of his throat as the fingers grazed over an especially sensitive area of skin on his belly, the cut there deeper than the others. A melodic rumbling voice echoing in Chris’s ears,

 _“Goodmorning, angel,”_ The percussionist’s face heated up a bit at the nickname, the bassist humming lowly as he playfully squeezed around Chris’s middle. The brunette made another small noise in his throat as his body finally connected itself to his brain and he could feel the soreness of practically his entire lower half. Lips kissed at the top of his head, the hand trailing from his stomach down to trace fingernails over his thigh. Chris breathing quickened the smallest bit when the fingers started to trace the soft skin of his inner thighs. _“Think we should probably shower,”_ Paul hummed into Chris’s hair, nuzzling against the brunette's shoulder as he spoke. Chris not even replying as Paul’s hand squeezed gently at the flesh of his thighs before the other man pulled away, rolling toward the edge of the bed as Chris stayed stock still. The bassist yawned, making his way over to the other side of the bed, crouching down by Chris’s head; hand cupping the percussionist's face. Chris’s gaze finally focusing, staring into Paul’s eyes as the bassist smiled lovingly at him, 

_“You feelin’ okay, Chrissy?”_ The percussionist tried to respond, voice catching in his throat before he tried again, sounding shaky and quiet, 

_“S-sore,”_ Paul chuckled, leaning into to kiss Chris’s forehead, 

_“Oh, Chrissy,”_ Chris blushed again. 

Paul had ended up carrying Chris to the bathroom since the percussionist was barely able to walk yet. The brunette's legs shook as he was set down in the shower. Clinging onto Paul’s arm which was still around his waist, as the water was turned on; much too cold for Chris’s liking. Though the water eventually did heat up. 

Chris’s back was pressed to Paul’s chest, his legs still unsteady neither him, the water from the showerhead pouring over both of them as large hands roamed across Chris’s body. The medical tape on the percussionist's belly started to peel off, leaving the skin a bit sticky with adhesive before it was washed away with gentle hands. The water stinging the cuts, though most had to scabbed over, the skin around them red and irritated, some of the deep wounds seeping a small amount of blood. 

The percussionist’s body flinching as a thumb pushed against one of the bleeding cuts, making it open a bit more and letting the red fluid run down his belly, mixing with the water as his trickled down his thighs; some of the crimson mixed liquid seeping into his scant pubic hair. Chris whimpered as the thumb lessened its pressure and the hand moved to graze between his thighs, grabbing his soft dick and squeezing teasingly. Chris hating the warmness that started to pool in his gut as the large hand touched him, Paul humming softly in his ear. The man’s other hand massaging the flesh of Chris’s hip, while the percussionist’s dick started to harden under the touch of the calloused fingers, he could practically feel Paul grinning. A breathy moan escaping Chris’s lips as the hand palmed at his groin. He was too tired to fight as his legs shook under him and his lip quivered; a few silent tears sliding down his face disguised by the shower. 

_He had cried so very much in the last week or so, what’s a few more tears?_ Kisses mouthed onto his neck, the bruises thrumming along with his heart rate as the hand worked at his now fully hard dick. Chris wasn't interested in lasting any longer than he needed to, and Paul’s skilled fingers only reinforced that fact; a thumb sliding up the slit in the head of Chris’s dick and making the percussionist whimper which only spurred Paul to do it again. The bassist's body shifted to allow his other hand abscess to Chris’s quite sore ass. The hand slipping down the cleft of the ass to press against the percussionist’s fucked out asshole, which made Chris flinch and moan. One of the digits teasingly grazing along the ring of muscle, before it dipped into the percussionist’s slick insides.

 _“Fuc_ **_k_ ** _. . . !”_ The hands squeezed hard around Chris’s dick. A dangerous purr in the brunette's ear. 

_“Language, Chrissy,”_ Chris biting hard at his lip to stop a string of curses spilling out as the finger sunk all the way into him, curling against the ejaculant slicked inner walls. His guts still coated with Paul’s cum from the previous night allowing the bassist's fingers to move inside him with ease, even while Chris whimpered; his own arms hanging limply at his sides, legs trembling as they struggled to keep him upright. The finger slowly fucking into the percussionist as the other hand stroked his dick, moans edged out of his throat while the hands kept a steady pace on and in his body. Chris muttering, not in full comprehension of the words on his tongue,

 _“_ Pau _lie…pa_ **_ul_ ** _-...S-shit一”_ Chris’s words were cut off by a sharp pain in his gut, that would have made him double over if not for the way the bassist’s arm’s were holding him. The hand that had once been on his dick had moved quickly to dig a finger into one of the cuts on his stomach; ripping it open and causing blood to gush from it, which spilled down his belly. Chris yelping, nearly swearing again as the digit made pain coarse through his nerves as it slid up and down the length of the bloody wound; splitting the thin layer of scabs that had started to form. 

_“_ I said _, watch your fucking language,_ **_angel_ ** _,”_ Chris whimpered as another finger was sunk into his ass while his stomach still burned with pain. 

_“ ‘m s-sor-_ **_Rr_ ** _y, Pau-lie,_ pl _eas-e, ‘m sorry ‘m so-rr_ **_y,_ ** _sto_ p _ple-_ ea _se,”_ Paul hummed, still a sharp quality to his tone while Chris continued to warble; both sets of fingers digging further into the trembling percussionist. The brunette crying out another plea before the now blood coated fingers in his belly withdrew, drawing stuttering gaps from Chris.

 _“S-sor-ry, ‘m sor-rry s-,”_ The percussionist once again cut off when Paul mumbled a _'_ _Shhhhhh’,_ Chris snapping his mouth shut so fast that his teeth clicked together. Crimson trickled down his stomach while the now bloody fingers went back to wrap around his dick, starting to stroke at the erection as Chris whimpered through grit teeth; heat thrashing in his gut as the bassist worked his body into a trembling mess. The shower still poured over them as Chris let out a pitched moaning sound. 

The percussionist squirming, some of his hair sticking to his face. His jaw going slack and body nearly falling onto the floor of the shower as an orgasm ripped through his already exhausted body. Said orgasm feeling more like a slap in the face as burning tendrils wormed their way throughout the percussionist form. His ejaculant spilling onto the floor of the shower, Paul’s hand continuing to pump Chris’s dick as the percussionist bucked his hips and let out a throaty moan. The two fingers inside him curling, managing to graze over his prostate; making Chris whine. The overstimulation of his post-orgasm body started to kick in as the digits moved inside him, his chest heaving. His voice managed to plead with Paul to stop as the nerves in his body burned. A low purring sound in his ear. Paul finally relented and pulled his hands out and off of Chris’s body, rewrapping his arms around the percussionist instead. The brunette swaying in the bassist's hold, gasping for air like he’d been strangled. 

Chris’s breath eventually ebbing into a softer pattern. Paul hands guiding to turn the brunette around, hand coming to cup the man’s face. Gliding across the percussionist’s cheek and into his wet hair, combing fingers through the curls as Chris stumbled forward and rested his head against Paul’s chest; a small whimpered purr from his throat as the fingers pet calmingly through his hair. He hated to admit to himself that he loved the feeling, a hint of something the percussionist couldn’t explain twisting in his chest. 

The shower eventually turned off. A towel grabbed from the rack and wrapped around Chris’s shoulders, the percussionist letting himself be led out of the shower and over to the counter; lifted onto it with his legs dangling off. A small hiss from his mouth as the cold surface pressed to the back of his thighs, leaning back so his shoulders pressed to the steamy mirror. Paul was in front of him, though Chris intentionally refused to meet the bassist's gaze; instead glancing around the bathroom. It had been cleaned at least. The blood from the previous night mopped up from the tiled floor so it didn’t look like someone had been murdered, the towel used hand washed in the sink. The medical tape set on the counter, Chris noticing a few spare bandaids, though he had no idea where they came from. He couldn’t see the razor blade anywhere, the memory of the thing sending a shiver up his spine, the cuts on his belly and chest sparking with pain. The percussionist biting back a small pathetic noise. 

Hands dragged up the sides of his body, nails grazing along his skin. The hands coming to rest on either side of his face, forcing Chris to finally meet the bassist's eyes as thumbs traced over the bruised cheekbones. The skin of Chris’s face was discolored across both cheeks, splotchy, and inconsistent reddish marks, purple curling under the skin in the worse areas. Chris heard what could have been a displeased sound from Paul as the bassist leaned closer. The percussionist not resisting as his head was tilted to the side, trying to watch the bassist. Chris’s breath hitching as the man’s lips pressed to his cheekbone, kissing gently at the discolored skin. The percussionist's head moved as the kisses peppered across his cheeks and nose, his eyes fluttering shut; enjoying the feeling of the kisses. Emotions that he very much did _not_ want to deal with right now bubbling up. 

What the other man did pull away, Chris almost begged him to come back. To kiss every single part of him to make it all feel better. . . but no, instead the percussionist chewed at his lip and stared at one of the tattoos that were inked along the bassist's shoulder. The hands once of his face trailing down his body again and resting on his thighs, skin humid from the shower. 

Blood trickled down his stomach, stark, and crimson against his skin. The cuts raw and irritated. A sound of pain from his throat as a finger traced along them. 

_“I’m...I’m so sorry, Chrissy, you just looked so pretty, I-I couldn’t help it, I wanted, I-. . .”_ The words mumbled so quietly Chris almost doubted he was supposed to hear them. Paul’s voice catching in his throat, a sound of annoyance following. The hands on Chris’s thighs tightening their grip if just for a moment before letting go of him entirely. The bassist moved to grab the medical tape and bandaids, setting them next to Chris. Starting to patch up the freshly opened wounds on the percussionist’s belly. Chris started to zone out, his head tilting back against the mirror that still had a sheen of mist on it. The brunette staring at the ceiling and refusing to acknowledge anything besides the crumbling plaster and few scattered cobwebs; not even the emotions that thrashed in his head. 

The cuts on his abdomen patched up one by one, skin taped shut. Chris blinking back into reality when a soft pair of lips pressed dead center to the lettering carved into his flesh; It may not have healed the damage, but the kiss certainly made Chris’s chest squirm in a way he couldn’t process at the moment and made a small gasp escape his lips. Chris was almost tempted, like before, to plead with Paul to kiss every part of him and make it feel better. The words on the tip of his tongue when he was cut off. A sharp patternless knocking on the door of the hotel room,

 _“Wakie Wakie, Sweethearts! Buses leave in an hour and a half!”_ A distinct cackle following the Dj’s shout as the man skipped down the hallway to harass whoever he could find next; probably Shawn.

Paul scoffed, wrapping his arms around Chris and pulling the man to his chest, the percussionist’s head resting on the man’s chest, brunette hair still a bit damp and sticking to Paul’s caramel skin. The bassist’s hand linking together at the small of Chris’s back, his face pressing to the top of the percussionist’s head. Voice tinged with slight annoyance rumbling in Chris’s ears, 

_“Suppose we have to get ready, don't we?”_ Paul sighed, Chris silently begging the man not to let him go; daring to reach a shaky hand up to rest on the dark-haired man’s bare hip. Fingers brushing along the warm smooth skin, Chris murmuring something incoherent that even he didn’t understand. Paul chuckled, tracing a finger up Chris’s spine, only stopping as the towel was still draped over the brunette shoulders hindered his progress and forced the finger to retrace its touches. The bassist kissed the top of Chris’s head, nuzzling his face into the silky hair, _“Love you too, Chrissy,”_ Paul's voice as sweet as honey, Chris’s face flushing. If the bassist used that tone Chris would do anything he asked no questions asked, even if the man asked him to get a chuck of the moon and some of the stars. 

  
  


Chris looked like a bit of a mess, but at least he could walk…sort of. His hair tangled, eyes tired, cheeks bruised and with a beanie pulled low over his eyes. Ever faithful time-worn blue sweatshirt having been pulled over his head. The thing did make him feel slightly more secure as he was escorted out to where the buses were parked, his hand held firmly in Paul’s grip. Chris fidgeting with one of the pull strings of the blue hoodie, anxiety welling thicker and thicker in his gut as they got closer to the buses. The percussionist unconsciously clinging to Paul’s hand like a vice. 

The back parking lot was near empty, the tour buses park unceremoniously with a few roadies buzzing around them. None of them even glancing the two men’s way as Paul guided Chris to one of the busses. The percussionist relieved to see no one else on it yet; the rest of the band probably still raiding the hotel's breakfast bar. 

The bassist took both of their bags back to the bunk area, tossing them into their respective places. Chris left standing awkwardly in the middle of the bus by one of the couches, the edge of said couch looking like someone had taken the liberty to claw the thing to bits, not unlike a cat would do. Chris tilted his head just a fraction in confusion, wondering if maybe Sid had gotten bored and taken a pocket knife to the thing. The Dj always seemed to have some sort of sharp object on or near him at all times in order to reap as much havoc as possible. Chris shuddering at the memory of a time Sid had set up what must have been five thousand thumbtacks all along one of the recording studio's hallways, bobby trapping whoever dared try to rush down the corridor. Chris had stepped on one of said thumbtacks and squealed, Sid cackling at him from his perch in the ceiling; the percussionist still couldn’t figure out how the Dj had gotten up there or how he had managed to set up so many thumbtacks. A hand on Chris’s shoulder snapping the man out of his ponderings, looking up to meet Paul’s eyes, the man standing very close to him. The brunette immediately looked away again, he had just now noticed the small near imperceptible bruise on the man’s cheek; reminding him with a flood of anxiety about the bruises on his own face. The percussionist breathing started to quicken, his hands balling in his sweatshirt, eyes screwing shut.

 _“Sssshhhhhhhh. ._ .It’s okay, baby _,”_ Hands cupped Chris’s face, the feeling making some deep part of him start to relax as thumbs grazed over the bruises on his cheeks. The onset of a panic attack pushed away by the bassist’s touches. The percussionist had started to love when Paul would cup his face, as much as the brunette tried to fight against the notion; the hands holding his face made him melt like ice on a hot iowan day. Chris sheepishly settled into the touch as his breathing slowed. The bassist chuckled, _“You should sit down, don't want you to fall over and crack your skull open,”_ Chris followed the suggestion with only slight hesitation, a meak whimper in his throat as the hands moved away. The percussionist guided to the couch with the ripped up corner, sitting down and curling in one of the sides, his legs crossed and arms stuffed into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Paul smiled down at the percussionist, leaning down and moving to hold the man’s chin so he could kiss either one of the man’s bruised cheeks. The bassist’s voice dripping with honey-like earlier, Chris looking at him with doe eyes. _“You’re so pretty, Chrissy, even with the bruises,”_ Chris’s face only got darker with a blush, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Paul kissed the percussionist’s forehead on top of the beanie, fingers trailing down Chris’s throat as the percussionist’s chin was tilted up, pressing a bit to the man’s esophagus. Teasing little touches along the bruises that curled along the percussionist skin. 

The both of them pulled out of their little moment when they heard a loud yelling sound outside the bus. Chris’s eyes widened. Paul released Chris entirely and stood up straight, the percussionist huddling further into the couch as the voices approached the bus. Paul glanced down at the brunette, debating quickly before leaning in to peck at Chris’s left cheek, then chuckling and stepping away, a nearly imperceptible gleam in his chocolate eyes. 

_“See you in a bit, Chrissy,”_ Chris was very tempted to flip Paul off as the man strowd to the bus's doors and stepped off. A very frantic argument taking place in the percussionist's brain as to whether or not he should try to run after the bassist, though his option to do so was stripped away as the busses door was once again thrown open, though much to his dread, _not by Paul._

Corey loudly entering the bus, his voice pitched in a mockingly high tone as the singer mimicked something Sid had said. Yelping when the Dj smacked the back of his head. Corey about to turn around to hit the Dj in retaliation when his blue eyes locked onto Chris, a wide grin nearly splitting his face, 

_“Hiya Dicknose!”_ The percussionist only tried to further disappear into the couch, his legs curling up to his chest, whispering a _‘shit’_ . Chris now faced with _‘The Unholy Trinity’_ as he liked to call them under his breath. Corey, Sid, and Joey all finding their places surrounding Chris. Joey cleared stray papers away from one of the busses built-in counters so he could leap up to sit, kicking his legs and staring intently at the percussionist. Corey talking up resident in the small booth with a rickety table directly across from Chris, stretching his legs along the small booth as best he could and leaning against the wall with a shit-eating grin on his face. Sid took the most up close and personal approach, plopping down on the couch right next to the percussionist, who tried in vain to escape the three men's gazes.

Sid poked Chris’s leg incessantly, a rat-like smirk on his face. Chris huffing and gritting his teeth. He knew what was going to happen and he hated Paul for leaving him to suffer through it. Though he figured it had to happen eventually, he couldn’t hide the bruises on his face forever. _Can’t forget those pretty little cuts on your belly either, Chrissy!_ The percussionist damn near flinched as the singsong voice echoed in his head. Sid’s voice breaking through to him after an especially hard jab at his leg. 

_“Chris_ , get your head out of your cum-soaked ass!” Chris flushed, the man smacking his calf as if to exaggerate his point. 

“Sid stop fucking hittin’ him, you dick,” Sid turning to grin at Joey,

“What? He probably likes it,” The drummer rolled his eyes, Sid giggling. Corey snorted, 

“Chris, _don't make this take all day,_ ” The singer's voice worming its way into Chris’s ears, finally coaxing the man out of his stupor. Chris whimpered and immediately regretted his decision when the three sets of eyes looking at him widened as they studied his face. Sid the first break the silence with a bark of laughter, 

“ _I told you he’d like it!”_ Joey narrowing his eyes leaning off the counter to look at Chris more closely, the percussionist making a panicked sound and curling back into a ball. Sid trying to grab at Chris’s sleeves to pull the man out of his self-imposed isolation in the fabric of his sweatshirt. _“C’mon Chris, let us see those big fucking bruises!”_ The percussionist yelped as he was dragged out of hiding, scrambling to cover the bruises with his hand. Sid’s tattooed hands resting on top of Chris’s, the man still giggling as he managed to pry the things away from the percussionist's face. 

_“Damn,_ Paulie really did a number on you, huh?” Joey grabbed Chris’s attention as the drummer kicked his legs and snickered. Corey nodded along and stared intently at Chris with a lopsided smirk on his face. The cruel voice in Chris’s head ringing out again, ‘ _Oh they have no idea, do they, Chrissy,’_ Sid had his hands around Chris’s bruised wrists, though the sleeves of the blue sweatshirts were still covering the marks so that he Dj couldn’t see them. The pain of the grip causing Chris to flinch, the Dj noticing and cocking his head to the side. Daring to squeeze Chris’s wrists again to see the brunette’s reaction and smiling when Chris flinched and tried to pull his arms out of the Dj’s grip. The tattooed man purring and gradually increasing his grasp, _“Don’t cover your face, Chrissy, your bruises look so nice,”_ Chris blushed, freezing in place. When the Dj let go of him, arms falling limply into Chris’s lap, the sharp green eyes daring him before the man let out a loud bark of laughter and collapsed back onto the other side of the couch. Though one of his hands remained close enough to play with the hem of Chris’s pant leg. 

The other two men in the room had been intently watching the interaction. Corey shifted where he sat, leaning closer to watch Chris’s face, a lopsided smirk on his lips. Joey had a witched grin, thoroughly enjoying the panicked flush on the percussionist's face. 

_“So. . .”_ The percussionist's attention snapped to Joey, _“Gonna tell us any details, Chrissy?”_ Chris eyes wide, Joey cocking an eyebrow. “Nothin’ to be ashamed of. We’ve all seen you on your hand ‘n knees suckin’ cock before. _Remember that time you gave Shawn a blowie right before a performance in front of everyone_?” Sid chiming after the drummer as Chris got progressively more and more flustered, 

“Or the time you rode Jim in the middle of the studio,” The Dj snicking, _“Hell_ , you’ve sucked and fucked more dicks than most groupies,” Corey wolf-whistled, 

_“Best whore we’ve ever had, dicknose,”_ Chris squeaked, hands tensing up to tangle in the fabric of his pants. The three other men snickering while Chris trembled, teetering on the edge of crying his eyes out right there in front of his bandmates. 

_‘They think you wanted it. They think you wanted to get fucked on a cold bathroom floor with a towel shoved down your throat. They think you wanted to cry and drool and vomit, they think you wanted it, Chrissy. . . But how could they not? Anyone listening at the door would only hear your moans, the way you screamed his name. His Best Little Slut,’_

The cuts on his belly stung with pain like someone had reopened all of them, a sharp gasp from between his teeth. Lucky for him, the other men’s attention had shifted off him and to the door. Chris’s body filled with ice as the bassist stepped onto the bus, shooting Chris a telltale smile before turning his attention to the other men on the bus. Only Chris noticed the way Paul’s eyes changed slightly when the man saw how close Sid was to the percussionist. Despite the small flicker in his eyes, Paul’s warm smile remained steady on his lips while the bassist glanced around the bus. 

_“What’s goin’ on in here?”_ Corey grinned at the tall bassist like the conversation they had just been having was as normal as a pumpkin pie in autumn. 

“Jus’ tryin’ to get Chris to talk about what happened last night,” The singer winked, snickering a bit while he saw Chris shift uncomfortably in his seat across the way. Paul let out a small chuckle, amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth, his piercings catching the light, 

“ _Oh,_ nothin’ much,” Sid made a high pitched trilling sound,

 _“Bullshit!_ Those bruises don’t say something happened,” The Dj’s cackling, flashing Paul a playful sneer, _“Good job, Paulie._ Never thought you could hurt a fly,” Joey snickered and threw a pen at Sid, who snickered. The drummer picking up another pen from the counter, aiming, and managing to hit the Dj right between the eyes. Sid hissing and flipping the smaller man off. 

_“ ‘Never hurt a fly’_ my ass, Paul could kill a man in front of you and you’d testify in court that he was innocent,” Joey gesturing at Paul, who snorted, _“No offense, Paulie,”_

“None taken,” Sid put on a show of huffing and crossing his arms, which made Corey snort; The Dj acting like Joey had truly wounded his pride. On any normal day, Chris would have giggled at the display, but he was too busy staring half focused on the floor of the bus and praying that this would all stop, desperately trying to fight off the tears that were welling in the corners of his eyes. The percussionist not paying attention to the conversation which had started up again. 

_“Please,_ dude, We just wanna know a _few_ details, _”_ Joey clasping his hands together in a mock begging motion,

“Nah,” Paul only grinned, shrugging as Joey made an annoyed sound, immune to the drummer's pleas, “Get me one of those special bottles of Jäger Corey hides away all for himself and _maybe_ we’ll have a deal,” 

_“Hell No!”_ Corey slapped the table to accentuate his point, “You ain't gettin’ any of my fuckin’ Jäger,” Joey glared at the singer, Sid finally getting over his bruised ego and snickering. 

“Bet you a 20 it’s only special because someone jerked off in it,” The Dj cackling as most of the rest of the men on the bus wrinkled their noses, Joey snorting, 

“Jesus fuck, Sid, you’re the weirdest motherfucker,” Sid clicking his teeth together, making a strange trilling sound and sticking out his tongue at the drummer. Joey snorted again, picking up another pen from the counter he was sitting on, raising it like a threat at the Dj, who crowed out a laugh. Paul had shifted closer to Chris, chuckling as he laid a hand on the percussionist's shoulder, the man almost jumping under the touch. Corey piping up,

“And I thought the hickies were bad the first time for dear Chris, If you keep this up he’s just gonna be one big bruise, Paulie,” The singer tapping the side of his neck, calling back to the bite and bruises that the percussionist had first gotten on his throat, playful sneering at Paul. The bassist clicking his tongue in thought. “Hey dude, as long as he can still sing and play, do what you want,” Corey laughed, raising his hands in surrender, “Shawn might get on your ass though,” Paul chuckled, winking at the singer as he patted Chris’s shoulder. Chris made a squeaking sound as the bassist leaned down and kissed his bruised cheek, The percussionist face immediately going a deep shade of red, his whole body tensing up. 

“Goin’ for a smoke,” Paul gave a look to each of the three other men, a sneer on his lips, _“Care to join me, Chris?”_ The percussionist didn’t have much of a choice as he was pulled to his feet and led off the bus, his face still cherry red from humiliation. So easily ordered around by Paul. The rockus laughter of his bandmates sounded out behind him, though a small knot of relief twisted in his stomach. _At least he had survived it. Now he’d just have to keep surviving it._ Chris swallowed hard as the bassist guided them over to the back of the parking lot against a brick wall covered in graffiti, the man pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a white lighter out of his back pocket. Chris standing right to him, staring at the cracked concrete of the parking lot and fidgeting with one of the drawstrings of his sweatshirt. Paul blowing a ring of smoke that collided with Chris’s face, the percussionist exhaling sharply through his nose. Only looking up as the bassist's hand cupped the side of his neck, covering the bruised flesh, a low humming sound in the dark-haired man’s throat. 

_“Don't worry, angel, I won’t let any of them fuck with you too bad,”_ Chris’s face settling into the hand as a thumb pet along his jaw. The bassist voice a mix of calmness and protectiveness that made Chris’s heart do little summersaults. _“Can’t have them break what’s mine,”_ The man’s voice dropping an octave or two, the way he said the words sending a shiver up Chris’s body. Smoke curling from the man's lips as he smiled with a hint of madness down at Chris. 

_Fuck._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Chris was exhausted. His mind on high alert at every creek and rumble of the bus, curled in his bunk with his arms tucked around his head. His whole situation was not helped by the loud snoring of Corey and the less loud but still insistent snoring from Joey. Not to mention Jim’s habit for mumbling incoherence in his sleep. Sleep only came to him a few times as he tossed and turned in his bunk. Luckily for him, the bunks of his bus were significantly bigger than the ones he had been forced to get used to. Chris pulled on the strings of his sweatshirt to tighten the hood around his head, having starkly refused to take off the thing earlier and instead just wearing it to bed. 

He was so very tired, trapped on a bus all day long with the relentless chatter of his bandmates, well more specifically Corey, and Joey. The quiet sounds of Jim strumming at his guitar also being heard; the man having replaced Sid before the buses rolled out of the parking lot. Chris had sat lazily on the threadbare couch with the ripped up corner, a small sketchbook in his hands, trying to draw anything that didn’t look like aimless scribbles. Paul and Jim somehow fitting on the other bus’s couch, Paul’s legs in Jim’s lap as the two of them mumbled about chord progression and pick styles. Chris spying a few worried glances that got sent his way from Jim, Chris ignoring them and definitely not feeling even the smallest twinge of jealousy as Paul cracked a joke that made the tall guitarist snort with laughter. _Definitely not._ The percussionist scribbled a small doodle of a cartoon pig in the corner of one of the pages with small hearts above its head before he registered what he was doing and quickly turned the page to try again at drawing a landscape. Ignoring everything but the pen and paper, resigning himself to the rumble of the bus and the thoughts shifting in his head. 

They had all been watching a film on the small rinky dinky television, the lights of the buses dimmed as they watched. Chris had been dragged closer to sit right next to Paul, their sides pressed together as the bassist's arm was slung over Chris’s shoulders. The percussionist’s face turning a bright crimson, the low lighting of the bus hiding it from most of his surrounding bandmate's view. Chris sitting as stiff as a board until the heavy flush on his face faded just the smallest bit as he relaxed against Paul’s side, his hand moving to unconsciously play with the fabric of the bassist's pant leg; the movie’s audio blared through shitting speakers. Corey made a comment about something that made Joey snort and slap the singer's shoulder. 

Chris rolled over in his bunk. Now face down on the thin mattress, his hands worming under the hood of his sweatshirt and tangling in his hair; pulling hard at it as if that would help him sleep. Much to his dismay, it didn’t. Turning again, back now pressed to the wall of the bunk, the blankets tangled around him as the thoughts in his head stormed. Chris had been trying to keep his mind at bay, but now he relented, curling in on himself. The memory of kisses on his throat made his breath hitch. Large calloused hands trailing down his hip and thigh. Thick arms holding him close. Chris was enveloped in the memories, his body relaxing into the comforting recollections and ignoring the pain that hovered just out of his thoughts. His breathing shallow, lulling into a soft sleepy rhythm. 

Right on the brink of falling into much-needed unconsciousness when his eyes snapped back open. He could hear someone moving, heavy footsteps between the isles. The footsteps paused right next to Chris’s bunk, hearing a low grunt as the footsteps resumed their walk up the bus. The percussionist let out a quiet whimper. He _knew_ that it was Paul, like the thoughts in his head had woken the man up. Summoning him, as if to mock Chris. He flipped over again, this time facing the wall, his back to the privacy curtain that acted like an extra layer to shield him from the outside. Heart thumping at an uneven rhythm in his chest. 

The footsteps once again approaching the bunk, the sound of the curtain being pulled back making Chris tense. Not daring to move as warm fingers brush against the small strip of skin exposed at his lower back due to his curled up position. The fingers pushed under the sweatshirt and spread out over his side; the hand against him burning hot and somehow comforting in its touches. The jumping muscles of Chris’s stomach smoothed as the hand pressed over them under his sweatshirt, the cuts stinging in allowance with a hushed noise of surprise and pain from the brunette. A quiet approving humming sound from Paul; the man’s eye roving over Chris, a quick debate taking place in his head, only settled when a small sound of sleepy desperation came muffled from the brunette's lips, only loud enough over the rumbling of the bus and the sleeping noises of their bandmates for Paul to hear. The bassist tilted his head to the side, humming as he settled on a decision. 

  
  


Chris not at all prepared when he felt Paul start to climb into his bunk, the percussionist forced closer to the wall as the blankets were pushed to the foot of the bunk and the other man settled himself at Chris’s back. The curtain pulled close again, their breathing near in sync, Paul working one of his arms under Chris' body and around his waist. Bodies just fitting together inside the now very cramped space. The overwhelming feeling of both claustrophobia and some odd form of comfort swallowing the percussionist, all thanks to the man whose arms he was trapped in. Eyes flickering shut, the body behind him feeling like a heavy blanket, it was comfortable. Chris hoped that Paul would hold him close like this until sleep overtook the both of them. A soft comfortable sound slipping from the percussionist as he relaxed. One of the man’s hands pressing to the brunette stomach and tracing circles into the flesh, grazing over the tape and raised skin in a way that didn’t make Chris flinch away in pain. 

The percussionist body seemed to increase in temperature, his skin blooming in a deep flush as the man nuzzled into his neck. Chris gritting his teeth and hating the muted moan that rose from his chest, the bassist hips pushing against Chris’s ass. The percussionist now registered why the man had climbed into the bunk with him, not for sleep but for something _else._ A sickening familiarity from the night before creeping into the pit of Chris's stomach. 

“P-please _no_ , not he-re. Wh- _what if the o-others hear_ , wh-” 

_“_ Ss _sshhhhhh_ **_hhhhh_ ** _,”_

_“Paulie, I-”_

_“Hush it, angel,”_ Paul ground his hips against Chris, the percussionist biting back a moan. _“If you keep your pretty little lips shut, they won't hear anything,”_ The quiet sleepy growling of the man’s voice getting Chris to snap his mouth closed, wiggling his arm out of its awkward angle trapped against the wall to cover his mouth, the palm of his hand pressing to his lips in an effort to muffle any sounds that might escape. The bassist's large hands caressing over the burning hot skin of Chris’s lower abdomen, the fingers hooking on the hem of the percussionist’s sweatpants and dragging them down just enough so that the man’s ass was exposed. A hand squeezing the fat, Chris whimpering in the back of his throat. His hand nudged out of the way so three of Paul’s fingers could dip between his lips, Chris’s tongue instinctually licking at the digits and starting to coat them in thick saliva. Paul let out a low quiet growl close to the percussionist's ear, the brunette moaning while his tongue grazed the pads of the bassist calloused fingers. 

When the fingers were indeed removed from the man’s wet mouth, Chris had to stop himself from letting out a low whine. Paul’s hand tracing over to the bone of Chris’s hip and down to dip between the percussionist’s asscheeks, Chris screwing his eye shut tighter as the familiar feeling of the digit pressed against him. The muscles of Chris’s ass still had not recovered from the previous night, letting the spit-soaked finger slip in easily, though it still made Chris whine into his hand; which he had moved back to cover his mouth. Paul quickly burying a second digit into the percussionist's warm insides, curling them as if trying to get Chris to moan. Gently fucking the things in and out of Chris at a deadly slow pace until already loosened muscles relaxed even more; though the percussionist’s insides would occasionally contract and squeeze around Paul’s fingers as Chris whined while wriggling his hips. The burning feeling a third finger started was slipped into Chris, the meager amount of spit on it not nearly enough as it stretched him out. Chris felt his own dick pressing against the fabric of his sweatpants, curses that the bassist luckily could not hear muttering in his throat. A low whine just audible enough for Paul to hear as the fingers slid all the way out of him, teasingly rubbing at the rim of Chris’s asshole before pulling away from the percussionist entirely. 

Paul reached down into his own sweatpants to pull out the heavy erection, pressing it to the peachy skin of Chris’s ass. The percussionist grit his teeth and the feeling of the thing pressing against him, leaving a trail of milky precum as it was guided to his ass. His hips shifted as the dick pressed in between his asscheeks and the metal ring teased at the entrance to his body. The brunette was doing a terrible job of keeping quiet as the cock pushed torturously slow into him, but luckily for them, Corey’s snoring was as loud as ever echoing around the bus. Chris whining into his hand, the piercings grazing over his spanning insides, and Paul’s hand back at the skin of the percussionist’s hip. The muffled desperate sounds of the brunette sweet music to Paul’s ears, as his hips jerked in an uncontrolled way into the man, digging fingernails into the soft skin of Chris’s hip. The percussionist whimpering. 

_“Ssssshhhhh, baby, keep quiet,”_

The bassist hips finally slotted against Chris’s ass, the cock buried up to the hilt in the trembling percussionist whose hand clawed at his own face in a desperate attempt to keep himself quiet. Chris was near panicking; it was like the previous night in the hotel room save for Chris being forced to stay quiet while his bandmates slept around them, not feet from him as the percussionist was fucked slowly with the cock buried inside his guts. The tempered rutting of Paul’s hips starting to chip away at Chris’s sanity; _not that there was much left._ The hand on his half-exposed hip sliding to palm the percussionist through the worn fabric of his sweatpants. Chris suddenly painfully aware of the mouth of clothes he still had on, the sweatshirt still tangled around his torso, the hood cinched on his head. It felt like his body was spiking at about 500 degrees, the heat of the cock in his belly not exactly helping his predicament; slowly restretching his insides as it moved inside him.

 _“Fuck. So good, Chrissy._ ” Paul snarled, the hand on Chris’s groin squeezing with the torturous rhythm of the thrusts. The texture of the fabric rubbing against the percussionist’s hard dick near painful, making him whine and tremble. A mantra of curses spinning in Chris’s now fuzzy mind, the simulation of his body and the added strain of having to restrain any sounds trying to crawl out of his chest was _excruciating._

Jim _really_ hadn’t meant to wake up to the muffled sound of his bandmates fucking. And he really hadn’t meant to keep listening and not just roll over while swearing at them under his breath and simply pass back out. But he couldn’t stop himself from steadying his breathing and listening carefully to the barely audible sounds of Chris moaning and whimpering. Jim also heard low growls that he was sure came from Paul, sending a small shiver up his spine. A feeling of wrongness twisted in his gut, he’d heard Chris, well . . . _fucking_ before but this time something seemed wrong. 

The guitarist trying to focus and listen more carefully to the soft sounds of skin against skin, having to block out Corey’s obnoxiously loud snoring. Jim was not proud of the fact his dick was starting to swell with arousal against his thigh, despite the feeling of something being wrong he had gotten from the whole scenario, _he couldn’t help it._ Though for the sake of actually being able to look either of the men in the eye in the morning, Jim refused to touch himself, only knotting his hands in the thin blanket and trying to think of something that would kill his hard-on. The guitarist chewing on his lip, eyes squeezed shut. 

Chris was very much not having the best of times at the moment. His dick was being rubbed raw by the texture of his sweatpants and the groping of Paul’s hand. His own hand, which had once been covering his mouth, had clearly not been doing a good job, as Paul had pushed it out of the way and replaced it with his own; which clamped onto Chris’s face and caused a dull throbbing ache through the bruises already there. The cramped space was getting much too hot, Chris’s face beading with sweat, his breathing strained and shaky through his nose. With each slow roll of Paul’s hips, Chris only got closer to the edge, tears welling in his eyes. A telltale grunt from Paul, the percussionist unconsciously registering that the man was also close. Paul had stopped touching Chris, the hand once between the percussionist’s thighs moving up to press to the damaged stomach, which was burning hot to the touch and teasing under the bassist's caresses. Chris’s hips bucking forward in a vain attempted to get some sort of friction, only rewarded with the slight simulation of the fabric of his sweatpants which was not nearly enough. The percussionist whimpering into the palm of Paul’s hand. 

_“Sssshhhh, be quiet, Chrissy,”_ Paul’s voice was a mask of calm that was slipping just a small bit, a soft shaking note to his tone. Panting quiet breaths as the cock was rooted into Chris, Paul rocking his hips; pausing his pace to trace lines of cuts on Chris’s belly, purring into the percussionist's ear. Their bodies pressed so close they might as well have been one. 

Paul’s hand tightening its grip on Chris’s face as his hips jolted a few times up into the man’s body, the least controlled movements the bassist had made. Chris’s eyes rolling into the back of his head when the feeling of warmness filled up his guts. If not too from the hand clamped over the percussionist’s mouth, the rest of his bandmates as well as the diver of the bus would have heard the brunette moaning and whimpering at the same pitch as a drunken groupie who had just been filled all up. Tears now fully spill down the brunette’s cheeks and drip onto the sheets of the bed. 

The percussionist dick still straining against his sweatpants, a wet spot of precum staining the fabric. Muffled pleas for Paul to touch him drowned out and eventually becoming little more than quiet broken sobs. The hand finally sliding down and off the percussionist's face. Choked sobs ripping from Chris’s chest, his whole body shaking in Paul’s arms. A low purring that served to soothe Chris’s body.

 _“Good job, Chrissy,”_ Chris felt himself clutched tight to Paul’s chest, his body still much too warm, not able to reach his climax as he squirmed in the bassist's grip; only stopping when the dark-haired man purred again, hand laid over Chris’s damaged belly. _“Love you,”_ The percussionist only gave a strangled whimper in response. 

Chris had kept his head down the next few days, unable to look any of his bandmates in the eyes, though that didn’t stop the teasing comments from Corey and Joey and everyone who saw the state of his face and the story behind it. The times he had glanced up from the ground he’d seen Jim casting him more worried glances. Even in his current state, Chris instinctively knew the man was acting a bit off from normal, but he was too within his own head to care.

The shows require everything out of him, leaving him a tired wreck. Chris functioning about as well as the little mechanical creations Sid would make. The things would buzz and hum along for a short distance before self-destructing, typically with some element of fire and sparks. The Dj cackling, trying to reconstruct them, only to watch them tick to death in his hands. Once the Dj had created an abomination of hissing gears and sparks that he had presented to the rest of the band like a trophy; Having crudely duct-taped a stuffed clown to the top of it and dubbing it Shawn’s long lost child. The older man smacking the back of Sid’s head and rolling his eyes. The thing had ended up nearly causing a small fire when it had exploded into a mass of sparks and smoldering fabric. Sid had buried it behind Shawn's house late at night, the older man too lazy to dig it back up and simply deciding to leave it. 

Speaking of Sid, the man was currently drunk as all hell, sitting next to Chris who had nothing better to do than listen to the Dj ramble about his conspiracy theories. The percussionist nodding every few minutes to assure Sid that he was still listening, not as if it really mattered as the younger man raved about his newest theory, which involved secret war machines hidden in the clouds and the finish government. Chris completely lost and only vaguely aware that he was still sitting up. 

They were backstage, sitting in a quite dirty greenroom, perched on one of the couches with drinks in their hands. Typically Chris wouldn’t have drunken nearly this much but did know he could just spend the next day on the bus sleeping off a hangover so he didn’t much care as he gulped down the rest of the cheap bottle of alcohol. His vision swaying slightly as he heard someone call his name, Sid just continuing to rant as Chris turned away. The percussionist turning to face Mick, who looked about as enthusiastic as ever to be forced to help collect his bandmates. 

“C’mon time to go,” Chris made a loud gurgling sound and tried to stand up, legs unsteady and almost causing him to trip over before he regained his balance with the help of Mick’s shoulder. Once assured that Chris wouldn’t just fall over, Mick turned his attention to Sid. The Dj having furrowed his brows, tattooed arms crossed across his chest as he looked up at Mick with a challenging glint in his eye. Mick only staring back with an icy expression. _“Get up.”_ Sid shook his head, spiked earrings glinting in the light. Hiccupping and glaring up at the guitarist, 

_“Nah,_ don’t wanna - _hic-_ go,” Mick exhaled sharply in annoyance, Chris watching the exchange with a lopsided grin on his face. 

_“Don’t make me get Shawn,”_

“So _-hic-_ fuckin’ what, He’s _-hic-_ not my dad,” Mick let out a low unamused chuckle, 

_“Debatable,”_ Sid glared up at the guitarist, mind taking a moment to process what the men ment before it clicked in his head, 

_“Fuck You,”_ This time Mick laughing with a bit of humor, sneering down at Sid. Chris swayed a bit on his feet and managed to gurgle out a _‘C’mon Sid,’ Which_ neither Sid nor Mick actually heard; still engaged in a defiant staring contest. Mick, finally having enough of the Dj’s challenging, moving quickly to hoist the man over his shoulder. Sid squawking and squirming in Mick’s grasp, though they all knew that wasn't going to be very effective. Mick had managed to hold Paul back on more than a few occasions, and Sid being drunk didn’t exactly sway the odds in the young Dj’s favor. Chris following the guitarist, snickering under his breath as a few other people in the room stared at the display. Sid groaning and threatening to throw up on Mick the whole way back to the busses. 

Chris stumbled onto one of the busses to grab his bag. He had a blurry memory of someone telling him that it was a hotel night, and the extra vans in the parking lot were supporting that conclusion. Throwing the bag over his shoulder before making his way back out to the small gathering of his bandmates in the parking lot, hesitating when he saw Paul smoking a cigarette and looking towards him, clutching at the strap of his overnight bag as he approached the group. 

Mick still had Sid slung over one of a shoulder, the Dj drooling onto the ground and looking half asleep already. Jim standing near Corey smoking a cig and eyeing the singer, who was sitting on the ground and rocking back and forth, gurgling something about alcohol. Corey mumbled something as he spied Chris, and gave the percussionist a drunken smile. Chris moved to stand next to Joey, who was for some reason dressed in a dinosaur onesie and looked only slightly less drunk than Corey, on account of the drummer actually being able to stand. Chris blinking hard and looking back around. 

Craig was standing stock still next to Shawn, the clown shoving hotel key cards into the man’s hands and asking him to hand them out to everyone. The sampler grumbling under his breath. The clown finishing his chat with the diver before turning to address the group. 

_“Listen up fuckers,”_ Corey giggled and was smacked in the back of the head by Jim, “These are you hotel keys,” The clown gesturing to Craig who was dutifully handing out the things, “Rooms are same as always, feel free to switch, I don't care. Bus calls at ‘round Ten, don't make me drag you out of bed. Don't run up the bill, and don’t call any prostitutes,” Shawn cocked an eyebrow to see if anyone had anything to add, no one piping up. The clown huffed, nodding his head towards the vans. The other men moving to start clambering into them. Mick practically throwing Sid into the trunk of one of the vans, the Dj letting out a surprised yelp. Chris watching and giggling a bit as Corey, who was still sitting on the ground, tugged at the leg of Joey dinosaur ones and grinned up the drummer, probably saying something obscene and earning himself another smack to the head. _The singer did have a habit of earning himself an unnecessary amount of head wounds._ Chris felt an arm drape around his shoulders, turning his head and looking up at Paul with cloudy eyes. The man clutching the remnants of a cigarette between his teeth. Giving up on it as he sucked in the last puff of smoke, dropping it to the ground just to grind it against the concrete of the parking lot with the soul of his shoe. Chris felt a flush rising on his throat as Paul locked eyes with him. Chris’s facing going into a grin of misguided happiness as he stared into Paul’s deep pretty dark eyes. The moment only interrupted when Mick shouted, 

_“Pack it up, Lovebirds!”_ Chris felt the flush graduate all the way up his face as Paul chuckled, leaning to peck a kiss on the percussionist’s forehead. Moving his arm from over Chris’s shoulders and sliding down to hold his hand as they made their way over to one of the less full vans. Chris ended up squished in the back, sharing a seat with Craig and Paul, the percussionist head leaning against the window. His head buzzed both due to the alcohol and the rattling on the van window against his skull. He hadn’t drunk this much since, well, he didn’t remember, but at least he still had general control over his limbs and mouth. Though he had probably let a few things slip to who knows who at some point in the evening, but it’s not as if Chris cared at the moment. 

The hotel was like all the other ones, hallways long and empty at this time of night as they all filed to their rooms. Paul had his arm around Chris’s shoulders again, guiding the both of them to their room after a few shouts goodnight to the rest of the band. Chris could feel anxiety welling in his gut but in his drunken state, he couldn’t remember why. Scrunching up his face in a look of outward confusion. 

The lock of the hotel room clicked as Paul scanned the key card, Chris throwing his bag down on the floor and nearly losing his balance as he stripped off his shoes. Leaving his socks on because for some reason he always got cold feet when he was drunk, though not in the metaphorical scenes. Stumbling a bit to regain his balance, kicking off his final shoe in the process. Chris looked up a bit too fast when he heard chuckling; Paul sitting on the edge of one of the beds, bag dropped to the floor, head tilted to the side as he studied Chris with an amused expression on his face. Chris’s cheeks going a bit pink, looking down at the floor sheepishly. 

_“Awe,_ Chrissy,” The percussionist flicking his eyes up, seeing Paul smiling warmly at him, patting his thigh, “Come’ere,” Mind taking much longer to catch up as Chris’s body moved forward, haphazardly climbing into Paul’s lap, the bassist arms wrapping around the percussionist’s waist and holding him steady; Chris's own arms slung over the bassist’s shoulders. Paul’s face nuzzling into Chris’s neck and causing the brunette skin to become an even darker shade of pink, a whine rising from his throat. Vibrations of the bassist's voice buzzing up Chris’s body, _“You’re so cute, angel,”_ Chris made another loud whining sound, the nickname having a much bigger effect on his drunken mind and body than he’d care to admit; jeans becoming a little tighter in the front. Tan fingers tracing up and down Chris’s spine through his t-shirt, not at all helping the heat stirring in the percussionist’s gut. Paul’s humming causing the other man to whimper, shaking as he had held closer. 

_“F-fuck,”_ Chris’s eyes going wide in fear, _“No, n-no ‘m sorry, Sor-ry, I forgo-t, sor--”_ His drunken babbling cut off by chuckling and the bassist playfully squeezing around the brunette’s middle. The man making a low shushing sound. One of the bassist's hands sliding over Chris’s hip and up under his shirt. The t-shirt riding up as the hand traced further up Chris’s soft side, the percussionist whimpering at the contact. The fingers trailing over the bumps of ribs, finally moving up to squeeze gentle at Chris’s chest. A drunken squeak from the percussionist, as the hand massaged at his chest. Heat rising in his face, 

_“Almost forgot how sensitive you are,”_ Paul’s voice tinged with a humored growl, Chris squirming as the tip of one of the fingers caught in his nipple ring and pulled just enough to get him to whimper. The low tone of the man’s voice sent a shake down Chris’s spine, sensing something he couldn’t quite identify in the way the dark-haired man chuckled and smiled against the skin of his throat. The fingers tugging a bit harder on the ring, Chris whimpering, unable to stop his hips from jolting forward, breathing a bit quicker than before. Paul leaned back, dark eyes flicking up and down the percussionist’s form, meeting the water blue eyes that looked down at him with something akin to a mixture of fear and lust. Paul’s other hand moved to the hem of Chris’s t-shirt, pulling it up and off the man, who shivered and shifted on Paul’s lap. Touches trailing along Chris’s now bare upper half, pierced lips back at the pale throat, kissing along the wing of his collarbone. Teeth not yet sinking into his skin even as Chris waited with faded breath for the pain that came with the bites, eyes closed and lips parted. 

Paul made a reverberating humming sound in the back of his throat, the mouth leaving the other man’s skin. Only to be back a second later with a vengeance, having moved down the percussionist’s chest. Chris’s back-arching, breathing out a high pitched keening sound as the mouth latched around one of his nipples, fortunately not the one with the pink half healing scars in a heart around it, otherwise, Chris would have died right then and there. The pierced tongue grazed over the sensitive bud, teeth nipping at the skin of Chris’s chest. Every bit of stimulation causing the percussionist to whimper and try to move his hips, only for one of Paul’s hands to settle on his spread thigh and squeeze warningly. Paul’s other hand was trailing up Chris’s spine and eventually knotting in his hair, pulling his head back a bit to force his spine further into its arch. The mouth on Chris’s chest sucking hard around the pierced nipple, drunken babbling mixed with moans spilling from the percussionist's lips while the tongue licked and pressed to the sensitive bud. Paul’s tongue piercing catching on the metal ring and pulling on it and causing Chris to whimper, drool dribbling out of the corner of his mouth. 

A loud and undignified whine coming from Chris as the mouth unhitched from his chest. Paul’s eyes drifting open a bit, a soft smile on his lips. Chris’s chest was slicked with drool, skin around the nipple was flushed and scattered with a few teeth marks. The bassist purring, moving the hand at the percussionist's hip up to flick over the now even more delicate area. Chris hissing at the sharp contact. Paul got a glint in his chocolate eyes as he scanned Chris, studying the thin scars that stood against the skin. Chris’s breath hitching hard in his throat, choking out a desperate whine as he felt the mouth latch back onto his chest. This time over the barely healed scars, Chris yelping with pain as the teeth bit into his flesh, the already painful healing cuts inflamed by the new disturbance. Some of the wounds splitting back open. Paul humming as the metallic taste of blood seeped into his mouth, only sucking harder at the flushed bloody skin. Chris was squirming, the hand still tangled in his hair pulling and causing him to cry out. Mind reeling from a blend of lust and liquor, which made all his senses zero in on every place Paul was touching him. If he had been sober he would have hated every second of this, but in his fuzzy head, all that mattered was that someone was touching him and in a way that felt good. It _certainly_ had nothing to do with the fact it was Paul, not to mention the thrashing deep-seeded conflicting mess of emotions that Chris had for the man. He couldn’t forget what the man had done to him, but. . . . _right now everything felt so good._

When the mouth pulled away from Chris’s chest, crimson blood trickled down the reddened skin. Some of it smearing onto the steel ring through the percussionist nipple. Paul smiling and licking his lips, he did think Chris was exceptionally pretty like this. Even if he wasn't done with him. 

Chris bucking his hips and whining, dick straining against the fabric of his jeans and begging for any kind of attention. Paul starkly refusing to even touch the man, even through the jeans. Instead Rubbing a thumb over the percussionist's chest and getting a throaty moan. The hand in Chris’s hair loosened enough for the brunette to tip his head forwards and look down at the bassist with hazy pale eyes, drool dripping from his chin. Also able to utter a plea before he was cut off by the mouth back on his chest, sparking of painful pleasure deep in his gut and making his teeth grit together. More blood nursed from his wounds, skin nipped between teeth, tongue piercings making him whimper. The thrashing coils in his gut twisting, Chris knew he was close, letting out choked whimpers as the skilled tongue brought him closer to the edge. A hollow feeling in his guts making his muscles tense, 

The arms slung around Paul’s neck shaking and clambering at the man’s shirt. Chris concentrating extremely hard to make his mouth actually work properly, one of his trembling hands coming to grab at Paul’s short hair. 

_“P-_ ple _ase-- Fu-”_ Chris cutting himself off with a loud groan, screwing his eyes shut, _“Pauli-e, pl-ease s-stop, plea-se jus-t for a sec-ond, Pauliee_ **_e_ ** _pl-lease,”_ Much to Chris’s surprise the mouth on him stopped, pulling away, though he could still feel the hot breath tickling his skin. Both of the bassist's hands moved to hold the brunette waist, steadying him. Chris panting hard, feeling himself draw back from the edge, some inner part of him whining. Neck barely able to lift his head to meet Paul’s eyes, the man cocking an eyebrow, a teasing smile on his face.

_“Paulie, I-,”_ The bassist hummed, daring to stick his tongue out a lick at a rivulet of blood tracing down Chris’s chest. 

_“What do you want, Chrissy?”_

_“Ca-n I r-ride you?”_ Paul chucked at the drunken desperation in the percussionist's voice, the liquors having emboldened the brunette, hands massaging at the man’s sides, moving back up to tuck his head against Chris’s shoulder, mouth leaving fluttering kisses along the curve of the still bruised throat. 

“I don’t think you’re sober enough for that, sweetheart,” Chris responded with a begging whine, his body jolting as the hands gripped at his waist in a way that made memories stir. The percussionist chewing on his lip. Making another desperate sound. 

Paul hummed, mouth nipping at the skin right under Chris’s ear. Chris made a quite undignified squeaking sound when the hands locked onto the back of his thighs, his own arms tightening their grip around Paul’s shoulders as the percussionist was lifted. Paul turned, setting Chris down on the bed. The percussionist arms unlocking their grip after he realized that he wasn't going to be dropped on the floor, encouraged to crawl up the bed so that Paul could climb on as well, the brunette head resting on the pillows. Then in an instant, Chris got a terrible flash of deep-rooted fear as the man climbed up and settled in between his spread legs. A wave of cold smacking him in the face, he could feel bathroom tiles pressing to his back, pain spiking through his head. Blue eyes going wide and pupils shrinking to pinpricks, breathing caught strangled in his throat. His eyes opened but not seeing as Paul’s body moved over him. 

Soft open-mouthed kisses on his collarbone, _not the sting of a razor blade,_ made him let out a shaky breath. The kisses continued, climbing up his throat; Chris’s head tilted to the side as the lips pecked his bruised cheekbone. A trembling gasp escaping the percussionist's parted lips. 

_He was fine. He wasn't on the bathroom floor, there were no razor blades or glass bottles. Maybe, the same man was over him, b-but it was fine. Paul was in a good mood, and he had said sorry, and everything feels so nice right now and, And一_ **_fuck._ ** _fuck fuck fuck Fuck_ **_FUCK!_ **

Chris’s chest was heaving, trapped in a fierce inner conflict. Head spinning. 

We-- _We love him, don't we?_

Chris trembling at that thought, his only points of stability were the hands currently cupping his face. Unfocused blue eyes looking into dark chocolate ones, a vague muttering of _‘ Ssshhhssshhhshhh angel, ‘s’ll okay, I promise, ‘_ Chris’s breath fading into a shallow but consistent rhythm, face relaxing as his eyes became half-lidded, thumbs caressing across his collarbones. The blush on his cheeks only growing as he felt lips press to his, not various nor ravaging, but loving, as sweet as melted sugar. And this time, he managed to kiss back just the smallest bit. Paul making a low happy sound into Chris’s mouth; kissing harder just for a second before pulling away. His hands still cupping the percussionist's face. 

_“I love you, Chris_ , I’ve loved you for so long, _I-i. . .”_ Paul huffed, breaking eye contact with the percussionist, muttering a curse or two under his breath. Chris weakly raised a hand, petting in through the man’s short dark hair. The touch surprising but not unwelcome, the bassist taking a moment to revel in it. Then Paul huffed again, sitting back while his eyes traced the lines and curves of Chris’s body, chewing on his lip piercings in thought. His hands had left Chris’s face and trailed down to rest comfortably in the slight curve of the percussionist's waist, thumbs rubbing small circles into the flesh. Hands slimming down to the hem of Chris’s jeans, the percussionist now half-hard dick still straining against the fabric. The chocolate eyes darting up to ask for approval, Chris taken a bit by surprise, freezing for a second before nodding. 

The front of the percussionist’s jeans quickly undone, underwear pushed out of the way. Chris whimpered as his dick was freed, the hand holding it squeezing gently; which was already enough to make Chris exhale softly. There was some leftover precum already smear over the head from before, the shaft flushed a pretty pink shade. The bassist shifting the both of them, Chris forced further up the bed until his shoulder blades pressed to the headboard, his jeans and underwear stripped off him. Paul ended up laying as best he could between the man’s legs, Chris’s thighs over the dark-haired man’s shoulders, arms looped undersaid legs, and holding them up. Chris whimpered as the bassist's mouth kissed at his inner thigh, sucking small bruises into the delicate flesh, gradually getting closer and closer to the man’s cock. Chris’s muscles tensing as the mouth sucked a hickey into the sensitive skin right at the crux of his inner thigh. 

A loud keening sound choked from Chris’s throat as Paul’s mouth enveloped him. More blood flowing south as the bassist's tongue rubbed at the underside of the dick which was swelling and pulsating in his jaws. The head of the dick supple to the roof of Paul’s mouth, the piercing in the man’s tongue catching just under the crown and causing Chris’s hips to jolt upwards. The salty taste of precum mixing with the leftover metallic sting that lingered on the bassist's tongue. Paul humming and bopping his head further down to swallow the now almost fully erect cock all the way down, trying to relax his throat, though it did tense a few times around the head of the sensitive arousal. Chris was making noises that could be described as something akin to the noises of someone being strangled to death, his thighs locked around the bassist's head, drunken slurred babbling dribbling from Chris’s mouth. The dick twitching in Paul's throat as he hummed around it, getting a throaty moan out of Chris. 

The percussionist's hands were clutching in the sheet of the bed, head rolling back against the pillows. Paul’s head bobbed up and down slowly, cheeks hollowing while Chris whined, trying to buck his hips only to be held back by the bassist's arms holding his thighs still. The barbell through the bassist's tongue traced the head of the dick, pressing up the slit in order to make Chris squirm. The tongue moved to rub at the side of the erection against a swollen vein before Paul dipped his head again and deepthroated the percussionist; who was trying desperately to stutter out a warning as the heat in his belly coiled. Thighs clamping hard around Paul’s head, holding the man in place, the dick pulsating in his throat. 

Paul’s name moaned loud and shamelessly as Chris’s whole body stiffened, toes curling and back arching off the bed. Skin flushed and sweaty as he thrashed, head buzzing and eyes screwed shut. Chest heaving, the blood still there from earlier having dried, contrasting with the skin. His entire body burning up, internal temperature reaching what must have felt like a mini star, trembling and gritting his teeth. Warm ropes of fluid spilled into Paul’s mouth, savory sweetness on his tongue as he continued to suck on the cock through its orgasm, rolling his tongue against the underside. The percussionist breathing out what sounded like a death rattle. Paul hearing Chris muttering breathless curses, but at this point, he didn’t much care. Swallowing down the ejaculant as best he could, sticky and coating his throat. 

When the percussionist legs finally loosened their hold enough for Paul to move, humming around the softening dick as it was slowly removed from his mouth; daring to scrape his teeth over the freshly oversensitive organ and getting Chris to let out a mix of a yelp and a moan. A bit of the ejaculant dripped from his pierced lips as he looked up and Chris, who was still trembling with the aftershocks of his orgasm, hands twitching and eyes fallen shut. The percussionist gasped, flinching as lips pressed right at the curve of his hip bone, then moving to the scars across his belly. 

He had neglected to put any sort of patches or tape on, having forgotten that morning. Some had almost healed, though if he moved too much they would split back open, spilling blood. The word clear as ever, written in fresh pink scars, and healing cuts. Chris whimpered but stayed dead still as the bassist gently pressed his lips along each of the cut in letters, outlining them in affection. The percussionist's hands were trembling as the bassist sat up, legs folding under him, Chris’s own legs now haphazardly balanced over the bassist's hips. Paul leaned down, hand once again cupping the other man’s face, their lips connecting. Chris’s lips parting and allowing the kiss to deepen. He could taste himself on the bassist's tongue, which really shouldn’t have made him feel the way he did; moaning quietly into the man’s mouth. 

When they pulled away from each other, Paul was panting. His face in a bit of flush, Chris feeling the man's hips grind up against him in a way that made a soft gasp escape his throat. The percussionist watching as Paul leaned back, settled back between Chris’s legs, starting to undo his own pants. Chris only staring, blinking with foggy eyes and blushing harder when the bassist dick was pulled out of its confines. Chris studying the gleaming piercings and rosy slick head, a tan hand wrapping around the base as the dark-haired man grunted. No time was wasted as Paul stroked his dick, eyes roving over Chris’s body, his other hand tracing along the tender flesh of the percussionist’s side and hip; relieving in the damaged and discolored flesh of the man's body. The man muttering Chris’s name as his fingers caught over the piercings and sent sparks of pleasurable pain through his gut, biting at his pierced lip and grunting in a way that sent shivers up the percussionist's spine. Heat burning on his face.

The brunette had propped himself up on his elbows, body still shaking, drool seeping from the corner of his mouth, hair a mess around his face as he watched Paul with doe eyes. A dribble of precum beading from the head of the dick and dripping onto Chris’s belly, the milky fluid trickling along some of the raised pink scarring. More sticky ropes of the stuff stringing between the skin of Chris’s stomach and the cock hovering above him, the hand around it continuing to stroke the erection as Paul bit back grunting moans. Daring to teasingly pull at the ring pierced through the tip in order to make his shoulders tense and shake with stimulation. 

The bassist’s gasping as his temperature flared, suddenly very aware of the fast he still had a shirt on, releasing his dick so he could claw the thing off, tossing it beside them on the bed. Chris whimpered, the dick fallen heavy in between the bassist's thighs, still leaking with precum. Though this time the stuff was dripping over Chris’s own soft dick, the thing cute and pink between his thighs, a bit of his own mess not swallowed by Paul coating it. And now the sticky fluid from the bassist cock was dripping over it, causing Chris to let out a quiet gasp, his face feeling like it would melt right off his skull. Managing to tear his eyes away from the situation between his thighs and instead tracing his gaze up Paul’s new newly exposed torso. Gaze followed up the dark hairs that formed a trail along and up the bassist’s stomach. Flushed honey and caramel skin, tattoos inked into the skin in twisting patterns. Though Chris only got a fleeting look as Paul pounced on him, pushing Chris back down to the bed, the percussionist squeaking.

Paul's mouth was back on Chris’s chest, sloppily licking and sucking over one of the rosy buds, teeth clicking against the silver ring. A sound of drunken confusion melting into soft gasps as Chris registered what the man was doing. The sounds of breathing groans against Chris’s chest, vibrating through his form while Paul's hand found its way between his own thighs. Back to pumping at his dick with expert fingers, more of precum dripping onto the body below him while Chris breathed heavily and squirmed. The percussionist body was much too tired to get his dick to harden again, though that didn’t stop the oversensitivity course through his veins, head stuffed with cotton and clouds. The mouth pulling away for a second, the bassist labored breath against his skin. 

_“Fuck. . .I love your tits,”_ Chris exhaled sharply, a noisy mix of embarrassment and pleasure wrenched from his throat at the man’s words. The teeth sinking back into the skin of his chest, a low groan reverberating from Paul as the bassist caught a nipple in his mouth and nipped at it, Chris clenching his jaw, breath shuddering through his nose. The mouth on him only pausing to mutter out profanities, Chris recognizing a telltale moan on the man tongue before the dark-haired man pulled away. Sitting back, the hand not on his cock grabbing and dragging nails hard at the percussionist's thigh, leaving long red lines in their wake. The rhythm of Paul’s hand degrading into a manic pace, hips bucking, the coils of heat in the man’s gut finally bursting. Pearly ejaculant splattering over Chris’s belly, coating the cut up wreak of lettering carved and scarred into his skin in slick. The percussionist mewling, he hated himself for thinking it looked pretty. 

The bassist's head had been tilted back as he gasped for air, hips jolting as his dick twitched in its orgasm. Sweat dripping in rivulets down the man’s collarbones as he rolled his head back up to look down at Chris, who was starring wide-eyed at the mess on his lower abdomen. Paul, still breathing heavy, whipped his hand on the leg of his pants, shifting forward. Hands once again cupped Chris’s face in a warm familiar way that broke everything he could possibly worry about down into nothing. Watery eyes fluttering closed as Lips pressed to his, the taste of subtle liquor on his own tongue drowned out by Paul. Despite his exhaustion, Chris kissed back as best he could, losing himself in the bassist lips and honeyed warmth. Feeling safe under the man’s touches. 

The mess only his belly had been haphazardly wiped off with a spare bed sheet, Chris mewling whenever the scratchy texture brushed even a bit too hard over his skin. Paul stripping off the rest of his own clothes, before climbing up next to the percussionist and cuddling the man to his chest. Chris let out a slurred gurgle as his nose was pressed to the man’s skin, settling into the man’s strong arms. Everything felt hazy, time like a thick sugary syrup, Chris cuddled in Paul’s arms. The man’s hand petting through his tangled hair, Chris’s face nuzzled against the man’s chest, their bodies pressed close. Blue eyes just barely propped open as the percussionist traced his gaze along the ink embedded under the bassist's skin, vision half obscured by his eyelashes. One of Chris’s arms was slung over Paul’s waist and running fingers along the muscles in the man’s back, sluggishly blinking as he was cuddled closer. Their breathing falling in sync, Chris right on the edge of unconsciousness. Only jostled back from sleep when Paul moved. They ended up nose to nose. A quiet drunken giggle rising from Chris’s throat as honeysuckle sweet kisses were peppered all over his face, tickling his skin. The bassist voice like melted sugar in his ears,

 _“I love you, Angel,”_ Chris sucking in a nervous breath of air, voice trembling in reply,

_“I love you too, Paulie,”_

  
  


_The likelihood Chris was going to remember that night in full detail was low. Waking up to a headache, Paul cuddling him closer than he ever had before, and a warm feeling stirring in his stomach. Though instinctual fear still clawed somewhere in the back of his mind, no matter how safe he felt in the bassist's arms; The fear of the man remained as a raging storm just out of view inside his head._

  
  
  
  


The next days had slogged by, Chris barely able to keep up with Shawn on percussion and getting a punch to the head as payment. Which did not help the thrumming headache he had developed about halfway through the show. Luckily the older man had been distracted with interviews to taunt Chris anymore as the brunette escaped back to their bus and prayed to whatever Gods were out there that no one else was on the bus. _Okay, well, maybe he hoped Paul would be there, but that wasn't the point._ Some small relief passed over him when no one else was there yet, despite this he hadn’t even loosened the straps of his mask yet. Better for a few people as possible, _specifically roadies,_ to see the bruises that were still on his face, even if they had faded somewhat. Glancing around the bus one more time before he started to remove his stage clothes. Picking at the medical tape he had put on his stomach for some form of comfort before pulling on his ever-faithful blue sweatshirt. 

The percussionist rubbed off the greasepaint cake on his face, though he was too tired to try and get it all off. Eventually simply collapsing on one of the couches and curling into a ball, blinking sleepily. Resting his head on the back of the couch, too exhausted to actually get up and drag himself to his bunk. Barely registering the door of the tour bus being opened, only curling further in on himself as footsteps approached the couch. A hand falling gentle on his shoulder, almost making Chris squeak in surprise. 

_“Hi, Chris,”_ Jim’s voice was quiet, Chris could hear the comforting smile in it. The hand leaving his shoulder, the couch shifting as the man sat down across from him. 

_“You--uhhh,_ you doin’ okay?” Chris didn’t respond, hands tensing up a bit as Jim continued, _“I-”_ The guitarist pause, Chris glancing up just for a second to see the man’s face going all red, hand partially outstretched as if going to pat Chris’s leg before dropping back into the taller man’s lap, the guitarist now refusing to look at the percussionist as words spilled from his lips,

 _“I heard you ‘n Paul a few nights ago, and I-- uh, I’m sorry, but y’know I just, I just wanted to make sure you’re okay, because I heard you crying and I- Yeah, m’ sorry,”_ Chris eyes going very wide and his face flushing to match Jim, who looked about ready to drop off the face of the earth. _“_ Nevermind, I jus-,” Jim starting to stand, eyes darting around and looking anywhere but Chris, 

_“N-no, ’s f-fine, pe-aches,”_ Chris grabbed the guitarist’s wrist, the man falling back onto the couch. The percussionist still blushing madly and covering his face with his hands, shame and humiliation thrashing in his gut, Jim looking down at his own lap and picking at a fingernail in awkward silence. Chris raking hands through his hair and sighing heavily, steadying his breathing in an attempt not to cry. Jim finally looked at the percussionist, reaching out a shaky hand to pat the other man’s knee, 

“ ‘m sorry, Chris,” The percussionist sniffed, letting out a trembling breath. “It’s just, _y’know?_ You’ve been acting off lately and ’m worried, and the bruises on your face, _and the fuckin’--,”_ Jim making an annoyed sound, running a hand through his hair and sighing, _“A-re you-- are you okay?”_ In a sheer moment of honesty, Chris shook his head no, hands tightening in his hair. Jim made a noise of worry in the back of his throat, hands hovering; unsure of what to do. Chris’s shoulders shaking, Jim holding his breath as he moved closer to the man, wrapping his long arms around the percussionist and enveloping him in a hug. Chris’s breath hitched, his head tilting against Jim’s chest, hand twisting in the man’s shirt. The guitarist simply let the percussionist stay in his arms until the man stopped shaking, only loosening the hug when the man untangled his fingers from Jim’s shirt; sniffing as he leaned away from Jim. Eyes rimmed in red as he glanced up, voice watery as he spoke,

 _“T-thank yo-u, p-peaches,”_ Jim’s hand coming to rest on Chris’s shoulder, 

_“I know--”_ Jim sighed, scrunching his nose in frustration, “I know it sounds stupid, but _. . . Is there anything I can do?”_ Chris sniffed, looking down at his hands, mind currently engaged in a fierce inner debate.

 _“C-can I tell you somethin’?”_ The taller man nodded, tilting his head with a worried expression on his lips. The percussionist pushed away from Jim, shifting so he was sitting with his back pressing against the arm of the couch, legs folded in front of him. The guitarist watching, one hand still held up unsurely, eyes flicking with a spark of confusion. Chris sniffing, 

_“P-paul,_ he said he l-loved me, an-and I love him, but- _but, he hurts me, and I d-don't know what to do about it, but he also makes everything feel goo-d, and I-I . . . shit,”_ A short trembling breath, before Chris continued, _“I love hi-m, and it scares me,”_ Jim staring at him, unsure of what to do but wanting to help. His head trying to understand what Chris was saying.

 _“How did he hurt you?”_ Chris flinching at the words, a tear rolling down his cheek. Fear taking him over, he _needed_ to tell someone what happened, otherwise it was going to kill him. Chris’s hands gripped the hem of his sweatshirt, teeth grit as he looked up at Jim with big desperate blue eyes. 

_“Just, p-please don't tell anyone,”_ Chris choked on the last word, the hem of the fabric pulled up enough to expose the lower half of the percussionist’s abdomen. Jim gawked, almost tempted to reach out a finger to touch the damaged flesh, his mind buzzing with a mix of confusion and horror. The skin of Chris’s belly was raised and irritated around the once deep cuts, Most of the skin shiny and pink with fresh scars, the medical tape peeling off and leaving air starved reddish marks. Small bits of dried blood crusting the skin where the cuts had torn open during the performance. The percussionist whimpering as Jim exhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to meet Chris’s. 

_“_ Who did _t-hat?”_ Chris yanked his sweatshirt back down, bowing his head and refusing to look at Jim, only a small broken sound from his throat. Jim’s body tensing up, eyes widening, reaching the conclusion before Chris could even mutter something close to an answer. _“No,_ Jesus f-fuck, why? But- _but, he did that? N-no, God--,”_ Jim was staring wide-eyed at Chris, who had shrunk away from him, eyes darting like a frightened animal. “H-holy fuck, _”_ Chris squeaking when Jim used his long arms to drag them into a hug, his hand petting at the percussionist’s hair. _“I’m so fucking sorry, Chris,”_ The percussionist nearly started crying again as he wrapped arms around Jim’s body and buried his face in the man’s shoulder, eyes squeezing shut. 

_“You’re not a whore,”_ The percussionist choked, and squeezed Jim tighter. The only other person he had hugged like this was Paul, though Chris found a different kind of comfort in the guitarist's lanky arms. _Jim would never hurt him._ Chris was sure of that, the man was much too soft and innocent. The percussionist listened to the man’s heart rate while trying to calm himself. He could hear Jim's breath was trembling too, the man resting a cheek against Chris’s head. _“Can we tell someone?”_ The percussionist tensing, “Please, Chris, _I d-don’t wanna see you hurt,”_ Jim made a sound of sadness when Chris pulled away and out of his arms while violently shaking his head no. Jim’s face twisted in worry. More tears welling in the shorter man’s eyes. 

_“P-promise me you wo-n’t tell,”_ The absolute broken pleading of Chris’s voice immediately made Jim nod his head, though worry was still painted across his face. _“_ **_Promise,_ ** _”_ Tears tracing down the percussionist's cheeks, Jim let out a painful sigh, 

_“I promise,”_ Chris looked deep into the man’s hazel eyes, searching for something before nodding, whipping a tear from his face and sniffing as he looked away. Jim’s hand coming up to settle of Chris’s shoulder, cautious as if waiting for the percussionist to pull away as Jim spoke, _“I jus’ don’t want you to get hurt,”_ The guitarist’s voice nearly breaking on the last word, He really did care about Chris, _the percussionist was his friend after all._

Chris letting out a shuddering sigh, his body nearly going limp as all the exhaustion that had plagued him since the first night Paul had shoved him against a wall in that faithful hotel room flooded back to him. Looking up into Jim’s eyes again, he couldn’t voice what he wanted to say, but the guitarist understood regardless. Gathering Chris back up in a warm secure hug, the percussionist exhaling a painful breath. 

_It would all be okay . . . . wouldn’t it?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uwu sugar


	4. Sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one's a DOOZY  
> get your lube
> 
> Originally going to be an extremely long chapter but I split it into two, second part will be published soon

Chris was screaming. His throat rasped as he howled into the microphone, loud and confident as he threw a drumstick into the crowd. Probably hitting someone, but it didn’t matter. The last beats of the song ringing in his ears, the crowd roaring for more, the pyro on the side of the stage blasting out a lick of flames, nearly scorching a stray roadie. Chris threw the microphone, the thing emitting a loud screech as it smashed against the stage.

The adrenaline still burned through his veins as he was escorted off to the side of the stage, his back to the wall of noise created by the audience. His body started to feel like it’d been through a meat grinder, the pain in his hands only now manifesting, the tightness of the mask strapped to his head starting to well up in a headache. Chris ignored all of it.  _ Not important.  _ Only once the greenroom door had been shut behind him did his shoulder slump and the exhaustion crash over him, stumbling over to a rusty metal chair in a corner. His hands weakly fiddling with the straps of his mask. Unbuckling them and pulling the thing off his face, panting, grease paint mixed with sweat dripping off his nose and onto his coveralls. Wiping his sleeve over his face to try and get off some of the paint, even if he would probably get chastised for it.  _ ‘Don't dirty the fucking coveralls’ my ass.  _ The things practically had their own biohazard label. Chris made a disgruntled sound as he set his mask down in his lap and worked to tug the unpleasantly tight bondage hood off from his head. The thing had a habit of ripping out chunks of his hair if it stayed on for long enough. The rubber hood finally unceremoniously pulled off him, ripping out a few strands of hair as it went. Chris running a hand through the sweaty locks, grumbling to himself. Luckily he did feel much cooler after getting the thing off. Next for the coveralls.  _ What a joy.  _

“Chris!” The percussionist cracked an eye open, his back cracking as he sat back up. Still sitting in the metal chair though he’d changed into less  _ ‘I’m a member of SlipKnot clothing’  _ save for his badges, which hung from his belt,  _ and the black makeup he could never seem to actually completely clean off half ringing his eyes. _ Chris blinked and grumbled, staring up at Jim who was approaching him. The guitarist actually looked excited about something, offering his hand to help Chris begrudgingly stand up. 

_ “What?”  _

“They just delivered food out near the busses,” Chris cocked an eyebrow, his stomach rumbling. Jim was grinning, “Let's go get some, I know you’re hungry,” The tall man pivoting on his heel, Chris letting out a tired huffing sound as he followed him, feet still aching a bit. 

They’d managed to snag a few cheaply wrapped sandwiches before everyone flooded the table. The two of them wander over to find a place to sit, eventually hunkering down in the shade of a box truck away from the general buzz of the concert backstage. Only the occasional roadie running by. Jim was sitting cross-legged leaning against one of the truck's wheels, the back of his shirt probably getting covered in grime, the man glancing at his watch while unwrapping his sandwich. 

“We got about ‘n hour ‘til bus,” Chris grunted out a reply, taking another bite of his cheese and strangely textured baloney sandwich. The thing reminded him of the lunch he once was forced to shovel down back in school. At least this time the thing didn’t have the lunch ladies spit in it. The percussionist cringing at the memory and wrinkling up his nose, hesitating before wolfing down another bite. Jim hummed, picking the water-starved grass they were sitting on and absent-mindedly chewing on his own food. The two of them had spent more time together lately, Chris quickly learning that Jim also had a tendency to draw and doodle when he was bored, which provided an excellent opportunity for the two of them to waste time on the long bus rides together. Seeing who could draw a more grotesque version of an animal, or simply share a paper and fill it with mindless doodles. They’d probably played more games of tic-tac-toe than anyone else had at this point. Much to Chris’s relief though the time they’d shared, the man hadn’t brought up anything in relation to Paul nor the things the percussionist had told the man in confidence. Which was comforting. 

A repeated snapping sound broke Chris out of his train of thought, raising his gaze from the grass to look at the guitarist, who was grinning at him and snapping his fingers.  _ “So?”  _

_ “W-hat? I-- umm,”  _ The guitarist playfully raised his eyebrows and chuckled, Chris looking a bit embarrassed. 

“When’dya think we’ll be back in Iowa,” Chris made a noise in the back of his throat, he hadn’t really thought about that, shrugging as he nibbled at the crust of his sandwich. 

“Not sure, Shawn don’t tell us shit anyway,” Jim chuckled again, 

“Got me there,” Chris grinned, mouth full of cheese and baloney. Jim made a face,  _ “Ew,”  _ The percussionist still grinned as he picked a bitten slice of baloney out of the sandwich and playfully tossed it at the guitarist, who squealed as it splattered on the tire beside him.  _ “Dude!”  _ Chris was laughing, almost choking on his food before swallowing it down. Still giggling as Jim, who flipped him off, swatting at a fly that had buzzed near his head. 

Unfortunately, they did eventually have to head back to the busses. They would be driving all night and most of the next day, but Chris didn’t really mind. He’d get to sleep, and if he got too bored he could just annoy Jim until the man went off one of his jokingly long tirades about windmills or the politics of lizard farming. The percussionist grinned, only a few thoughts wiggling like tadpoles in the back of his head. Mostly revolving around a certain bassist. He hadn’t really interacted with Paul for a while,  _ not really getting the chance.  _ He knew it hurt the man, but he couldn’t really even look the bassist in the eye at the moment. Not after his talk with Jim, only daring to speak a few words when necessary, even when the man tried to engage with him in the few moments they got to spend together. Chris could almost feel guilt rising in his belly,  _ fuck.  _ Love hurt. 

Chris trudged towards the bus, Jim at his side. The tall guitarist snorted as they got close enough to hear their bandmates yelling; “Another day in paradise, ey Chris?” The percussionist could only nod. 

_ Paul was a bit pissed off.  _ The hotel had fucked up their rooms and now they were stuck with three instead of their typical amount. It’s not like he hadn’t shared a room with two other people before, _ fucking hell, he’d shared a single room with many more people than that,  _ but he was being forced away from Chris, and it pained something deep inside him. Like it had been doing for every day the percussionist wasn’t with him. The brunette dragged away to a different room by Jim and Craig, everyone a bit pissy and too tired to even think about repacking all their stuff to switch rooms. Not after the previous difficult night on the bus and an even more difficult show. Paul watched with jealousy seething under his skin as he saw Jim’s large hand laid on Chris’s shoulder. 

_ Paul had noticed the way Chris and Jim had been getting closer lately, well, the bassist had begun to get more and more jealous, it was getting him riled up. The way they would try to be together, Chris daring to ignore Paul sometimes just to stay with Jim. He wanted the percussionist all too himself. Chris was his and no one else's.  _ **_Only Mine._ **

A sharp poke to his side got the bassist to snap out of his seething state, mouth in a straight line and his eyes a bit darker than usual. Sid snorting and completely ignoring the somber expression on the man’s face in favor of poking at his arm again and making a whistling sound. 

“Hurry up, Piggie, or you’ll be locked out,” Sid didn’t wait a second as he spun around and twirled the hotel room’s keycard in his fingers, clicking his tongue to signal for Paul to follow as they made their way a bit further down the hallway. Sid finally abruptly turned to a certain door and scanned the keycard before kicking it open with a shout of  _ ‘Hi-yah!’,  _ which only made Paul roll his eyes as he followed the younger man into the room. He already knew sharing a room with Sid was going to be a task, but at least Shawn would probably be back soon. The man being one of the only people who actually had any semblance of control over the young Dj, though at the moment the clown was off somewhere discussing business with the manager or making bets with roadies, or whatever the fuck the man did when he disappeared. To be honest, Paul didn’t really know, and at the moment he didn’t really care as long as the man got back soon and made Sid settle down and stop jumping on the bed while making faces. The bassist snorting and tossing his bag down while kicking off his shoes. Stalking over to the bed not currently being used as a makeshift trampoline by the Dj, and promptly collapsing on it, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes and trying to block out the younger man, who had stopped jumping and was now sitting cross-legged on the other bed. 

_ “The hell’s up with you, Paulie?”  _ The bassist growled, shifting a bit on the bed. Arms folded under his head, laying on his back and trying to ignore the Dj’s prodding. Sid let out an exasperated sigh,  _ “Oh boo-hoo,  _ you don’t get to sleep with Chrissy for  _ one  _ night, I know you too are love birds but  _ Jesus,”  _ Paul cracked an eye open to glare at the Dj, who was grinning while rocking back and forth, metal teeth glinting. Paul was tempted to ignore the man entirely, eye shutting again as he let out a heavy sigh. Only hearing a quiet humming sound from the other man, which Paul was only slightly suspicious of. Both his chocolate eyes shooting open again as he heard the sound of bed spring creaking and the sudden weight of someone straddling his waist. Tattooed hands locking on his biceps and legs squeezing at his sides; Sid sneering down at Paul from his perch on top of the bassist. Paul knew damn well he couldn’t just throw the Dj off, not as if he was in a position to do so anyway, instead simply glare up at the man from under his baseball cap. 

_ “Get off,”  _ The Dj snickering in reply and playfully rocking his hips while tilting his head to the side. 

“Nah,” Paul grunting as the Dj’s ass pressed down against his groin. _“Don’t think I will,”_ Metal teeth still exposed in a wide grin. “Gotta get that anger out of you somehow,” Paul cocked an eyebrow as the man continued, “You fuck me, get some of your ‘angry’ out, _and I don't tell every roadie here to Cape Cop that you like to fuck Chris ‘Dicknose’ Fehn so hard he cries and screams._ Not to mention the shit he rambled about while drunk off his ass, _really never thought you’d be one to use a razor on someone, Piggie,”_ Paul’s eyes had hardened into stone, watching every muscle of Sid’s face contort into one of amusement as the Dj continued to rock his hips, voice a quiet purr. A sarcastic laugh bubbled up from Paul’s chest, lips twisting into a sneer. _The Dj really was more clever than people gave him credit for._

_ “Fuck you, _ “ Sid made a satisfied trilling sound in the back of his throat,

_ “Good,”  _ Sid’s fingers unlatching from Paul’s biceps and trailing down to play with the hem of the man’s shirt, “Use that anger, Piggie,” 

Sid had pulled off his own shirt, tossing it off the bed. Starting to undo his jeans as Paul watched. The grin still wide on Sid’s face as he wriggled out of his jeans and underwear, leaving him stark naked balanced on top of the bassist; dick dripping a thin string of sticky precum onto the man’s shirt as Sid ground his hips down again against the bulge forming in the bassist’s pants due to the friction. A grunting sound from Paul’s chest as Sid shifted, tattooed fingers undoing the fly of the pants and dutifully pulling his erection free. The Dj sneering, his hand wrapped around the base, squeezing. 

_ “Y’know ‘s been a while since we fucked,  _ ey Piggie?” The tattooed fingers teasingly stroking at the bassist hardening dick. 

_ “We aren’t fucking,”  _ The Dj ignoring Paul, hand still wrapped around the man’s dick. 

“Damn near forgot ‘bout these things,” Sid’s fingers caught on one of the piercings, twisting it in a way that made Paul growl. 

_ “I said,  _ We aren’t fucking,” 

“God, you’re fuckin’ boring,” Sid’s gave an over-exaggerated sigh,  _ “Have it your way, Pig.  _ You can still suck dick, can’t you? Or are you too pussy for that now,” 

_ “Fuck off,”  _

“I’ll take that for a yes,” Sid’s eyes flashed, hands leaving Paul entirely as he lifted himself off the bed, bouncing over his bag and digging inside for something, making a satisfied humming sound as he found it. Paul watched as the Dj climbed back onto the bed, carrying a small tub of vaseline in one hand. The man climbed up until he was sitting next to Paul, who was looking at him questioningly. The Dj drawing his knees up, cock drooling precum onto his stomach, the vaseline set next to him on the bed.  _ “C’mon Paulie, jus’ like old times.  _ If you aren’t gonna put out, you can still suck my dick and shove those big ol’ fingers up my ass.  _ Can’t you?” _ It wasn't really a question, the Dj sneering as he watched Paul’s face morph into a resolute expression, even if fire still burned in the dark eyes. The Dj’s legs spread further apart as Paul moved to get between them, now laying on his stomach, upper half propped up by his elbows. Sid didn’t waste any time grabbing the man’s baseball cap and throwing it away in order to lock a tattooed hand in Paul’s hair, dragging the man forward much to the bassist's discontent; the man letting out a growl. Which Sid rolled his eyes at, yanking harder until the man was forced closer, Sid’s legs over the man’s shoulders. The other tattooed hand grabbing at the Dj’s own erection, positioning it to graze against the bassist’s lower lip, Sid sneering as a bit of precum was smear across the twin metal lip rings. The lips parting, Sid’s dick pushing between them, the Dj clicking, and purring.  _ “Good pig,”  _ The head of his cock now inside the warm mouth of the bassist, who darted his tongue to flick across the head of the dick, the piercing through his tongue pressing to the slit and getting Sid to whine. 

Paul grunting as the hand in his hair forced his head down further, the Dj’s second hand joining the first to knot in the short dark curls, holding the bassist in place. The bassist tongue rubbing along the underside of the cock, the head of it pressing to the roof of his mouth. The salty-sweet taste of precum making his nose wrinkle slightly, Sid making a pleased noise at the facial expression; experimentally jolting his hips up to see what the bassist would do. He was rewarded with a groan and teeth grazing along his dick, a tongue piercing catching just under the crown. The muscles in Paul’s jaw tightened as Sid once again tugged at his hair, the dick forced deeper into his mouth until Paul gagged around it. Sid sneered at the sound the man made, though he didn’t stop, hips rolling. 

The hands in the bassist's hair yanking him forward again, until the dick was all the way in his throat, nose buried in the Dj’s curly pubic hair. Dark eyes squeezed shut as he swallowed around the dick, trying to relax. Sid was making a happy keening sound as he slowly fucked into the bassist's mouth, the piercing in the man’s tongue rubbing against the underside with each roll of the Dj’s hips. Paul breathed hard through his nose until Sid wrenched his head up by the dark hair, the cock popping from his lips, a string of drool dripping from his lips.  _ “Get to fuckin’ work,”  _ The Dj didn’t need to elaborate, Paul’s arm moving to search around the bed for the tub of vaseline he’d seen Sid toss down earlier. Finally finding it and managing to use only one hand to pop open the lid. Sid, who apparently thought Paul was doing much too slow of a job, groaned; grabbing the thing of vaseline from Paul’s hand and squeezing out a glob of it onto the man’s fingers. The Dj shifted to get a better angle as Paul moved a hand in between the Dj’s thighs. 

Not hesitating to smear the vaseline as best he could over the Dj’s asshole. The tattooed man squirming and hissing as Paul barely spared a second before pushing the first finger in to the second knuckle.  _ “Fucker,”  _ Sid gasped, panting and rolling his head back, almost hitting it on the headboard. Paul only grunted in reply, the quicker he could get the Dj to release, the quicker he could escape to the bathroom to jerk off to the thought of Chris. The bassist abruptly jolted back to reality when he felt someone pull hard at his hair again, which got to him to growl and glance up at Sid. Who sneered at him.

Though the Dj’s smile melted a bit as another shameless moan sounded from his lips, the finger inside him having slid further in and curled, brushing at his prostate with a shock of heat. Sid tittered and grabbed his own dick, which had been neglected to leak precum onto his belly until Sid wrapped tattooed fingers around it and slowly started to stroke up and down. The other hand he had still knotted in the dark curls of hair guided the bassist’s mouth to once again suck at the tip. The man’s tongue darting out to lick up the slit, Sid purring. The head of the Dj’s dick taken back into the warm mouth, a tongue working at the head, piercing gliding under the crown and getting the tattooed man to repeatedly gasp. A louder sound rising from the man’s chest when a second finger was shoved into him to join the first, Sid letting drool drip down his chin, metal teeth glinting as the feeling of the digits stretching him burned in his lower belly. 

Each time the fingers curled in his gut the Dj moaned and whined, the sounds edged with a strange undertone.  _ Because Sid is a fuckin’ weirdo, as Paul had learned a long while ago.  _ The bassist making a gurgling sound, Sid only continued to happily moan and tremble as he fucked the man’s mouth and wriggled his hips to fuck himself on the fingers. 

Then as quickly as he’d started, Sid froze, turning his head to look at the door of the hotel room, the grin still on his face. Paul confused, and not able to pull his head out from in between the Dj’s thighs, dick still halfway down his throat.

_ “Heelllloooooo Daddyyyy,”  _ Sid’s voice was pitched up in a mockingly singsong way as Shawn patted into the room, the door locking behind him. The other man rolled his eyes at the nickname before scanning the room, not even blinking in surprise to see the current situation happening on one of the beds. Paul grunted, trying to communicate that this was all Sid’s idea, which Shawn seemed to understand anyway, just judging by their positions and the way Sid was grinning. Vaguely gesturing in the pair’s direction as he set his own bag down on the other bed. 

“ _ Well,  _ don’t let me stop you,” Sid rolled his hips at the older man’s words, licking his lips. Paul grunting at the dick hit the back of his throat again before it was shoved all the way back in. Spit coating the bassist's lips and slicking his chin. The fingers scissoring and stretching the Dj’s inner muscles, making the man arch his spine and moan. Reinfused vigor shown by the Dj’s sharp thrusts into The bassist's mouth, Sid making eye contact with Shawn, who was studying the two of them. The Dj basking in the older man’s attention while Paul choked, his teeth scratching over the cock that bucked in and out of his mouth, which was clearly something the man above him enjoyed based on the chirping moan sound he made. The man wriggling his hips achieving a new angle for the fingers working inside him; the Dj letting out another keening sound as he tittered and drooled, thighs clamping around Paul’s head. Shawn watching the two, head tilted to the side, eyes narrowing. 

The Dj, whose body was shaking, as throaty near animalistic keening sounds spilled from his lips, the mix of simulation and heat in his gut was oozing through his nerves, hazy green eyes flitted over to Shawn, who nodded. Sid mewling, as he bucked his hips again. The bassist's mind flickering with distance thought of a different man above him, which made the whole thing more bearable. The Dj letting out a sound, not unlike a dying animal. Paul felt fluid rush down his throat, the Dj’s thighs locking around his head, the man’s insides spasming. Sid’s back arching, his head knocking against the backboard, though he didn’t seem to care as he shook and moaned. The bassist forced to swallow the man’s orgasm as he very couldn’t spit it out yet due to Sid’s legs keeping him in place, the dark haired man’s nose wrinkling at the taste. 

A glossy post-orgasm fuzz flowing through the Dj’s veins, the man letting out panting moans, his legs finally relaxing around Paul’s head, the tattooed hand once in the man’s hair falling away and allowing the bassist to move away; coughing and whipping his mouth. The fingers sliding out of the tattooed man’s body with a loud whine, Paul wiping them on his pant leg. The Dj’s head lulled back, a wide unnatural grin on his face, a quiet giggle bubble from his throat as he watched the bassist out of the corner of his eye. Paul swung his legs over to sit on the edge of the bed, using his shirt sleeve to wipe the mix of leftover cum and drool off his chin, running his tongue along the inside of his mouth. About to stand up when he saw Shawn approach him, Paul tilting his head up to look at the older man. Not anticipating the hand that moved quickly and grabbed between his thighs. The clown’s thick fingers squeezing at the half-hard dick hidden by the fabric of the bassist pants. Said bassist growling, about to bat the hand away when Shawn pulled it away anyway, a look Paul couldn’t pinpoint glinting in the man’s eye. The dark harried man about to stand again when the hand instead moved to rest on his shoulder. 

_ “Stay,”  _ Despite everything, Paul did what he was told, though his eyebrows were furrowed, body coiled like a spring. He really  _ didn’t _ like that his body had reacted so viscerally to even the thought of Chris. He hadn’t been able to get his hand on the man in far too long and it was itching at him.  _ In the bad way.  _ The sound of Sid whimpering catching his attention, glancing over his shoulder. The Dj’s was lying limp against the headboard of the bed, one of his legs still half bent upwards, hands clawing at the mattress. Shawn had the man’s face in a tight hold, tilting it upward so he could look into the man’s eyes, Sid’s drool wetting some of his fingers. 

The bassist’s mouth twisting into a small sneer.  _ Looks like he would get a little bit of revenge on Sid after all.  _ Shawn huffing, grip on the Dj’s chin tightening enough to make the hazy headed Dj whine.  _ “So rude, Sidney,” _ Sid jolted, another whine bubbling from his chest.  _ “C’mon Sid, be a good boy,”  _ Sid nodded desperately, quick to follow as Shawn directed him off the bed. The Dj limping around the bed until he was forced to his knees in front of Paul, who had still not moved; only narrowing his eyes, letting the man crawl closer. Shawn’s hand had moved to the back of the Dj’s neck, massaging one of the knobbly vertebrae between his fingers. The clown’s sharp icy eyes scanned over the bassist as Sid shifted closer to the man, forcing the thighs apart and snaking a hand up to pull at the zipper of the man’s jeans. Paul’s hand tightening into a fist against the bed, almost daring to shove the Dj away and tell both the other men to fuck off so he could crawl into bed and sleep away his problems.  _ Desperately wishing that he had any form of alcohol in his system at the moment. Maybe then he’d be a little bolder.  _ A tattooed hand pulling his dick out of his underwear snapped him back, the Dj dutifully drooling and moving closer, hand wrapped around the base to stroke the dick until it was fully hard. Precum starting to bead at the tip, Paul’s thigh tensing. 

A rumbling groan from the back of Paul’s throat when Sid leaned forward and ran his tongue up the head of the bassist’s cock, paying special attention to where the steel ring had been pierced through it. Sid’s hand, which was still squeezing at the base, moved to stroke up and down, running a thumb across the side over a thick vein. Shawn’s hold on the back of the Dj’s neck until the man whined, lips stretching as he took the tip of the bassist’s dick in his mouth, the steel ring clicking against teeth until it settled further back on his tongue. Spit already dripping down Sid’s chin again as he sucked around the sensitive head, daring to teasingly graze his teeth over the surface, which made Paul exhale sharply. He would have liked it if the Dj hurried  _ the fuck  _ up, but at the moment neither of them were really in control. That certain elect belonged to Shawn, whose hand was clutching on the sinew and bone of Sid’s neck, watching with uncanny blue eyes. 

Sid let out a choked whimpering sound, sucking more of the cock into his mouth, tonguing at one of the barbell piercings through the underside. Moans bubbling up from the tattooed man’s throat, sending sparks of vibration up Paul’s spine, which made him groan. The Dj seemed encouraged by this, if not simply to please Shawn rather than the bassist, whining and shifting closer. As far as Paul knew, Sid still didn’t have a gag reflex, which may have helped explain why the man suddenly decided to choke himself on the dick. The Dj’s throat was tight and spasming around him, Sid making noises like he was on the brink of death but still determined; sliding down further to gag on more of the dick, the piercings rubbing at the interior of his mouth and throat. Shawn seemed to approve, his fingers caressing the skin of Sid’s neck, running through the man’s hair. Paul’s eyes had gone a bit wide, forced to take deep breaths as the heat built in his gut, hand still in fists against the bedsheet while Sid went crossed eyed between his legs. The rest of the dick the Dj hadn’t fit down his throat yet stroked eagerly but his tattooed fingers slicked by his own saliva. 

A gagged out sound coming from Sid as one of the piercings brushed at the inside of his throat in an unusual way. The Dj trying to reel back, but he was held in place by Shawn. The man struggling for a second before giving up and going mostly limp, finally wrenched back by the hand. The cock once down his throat pulled out with a wet sound, Sid choking and coughing up a rush of drool mixed with a bit of precum. The mixture dripping from his lips onto his chest. Head lulling back; Moaning at the pain caused by Shawn’s grip, though the clown didn’t seem to care.  _ The Dj’s had worse after all.  _ Paul was still panting, watching as Shawn leaned down to whisper something in Sid’s ear that the bassist couldn’t make out. Though it did cause the tattooed man to tremble, a whine gurgling from his chest as he refocused himself, leaning forward again and using his hand to guide the bassist's cock back to his messy lips. 

Whimpers sounding from the Dj as some of his vigor came back, with Shawn’s quiet encouragement. The bassist watched with quiet spiteful amusement while the clown’s hand would tighten and loosen his grip in accordance with how fast or slow Sid moved his head up and down, his hands working in conjunction. Paul at the moment wasn't focused on staving off his release, in fact, he’d rather have the whole thing done quicker, which seemed like it was going to happen regardless based on how enthusiastic Sid was. 

A louder grunt coming from Paul as an orgasm once again built in his gut, the Dj’s sickeningly warm mouth actively sucking and slobbering around him. The bassist growling something incomprehensible, his hips bucking up, which made Sid whimper. Glancing at Shawn for any measure of objection and seeing none, the older man only leaning in to whisper something in Sid’s ear, prompting the Dj to mewl loudly and double his efforts. A mixture of the Dj’s renewed efforts and Paul’s own movements caused the bassist’s snarl and dig his fingers hard into the mattress. Finally, ejaculant spilled into Sid’s waiting mouth, the man swallowing and whimpering; sucking until the bassist dick started to go soft in his mouth and Shawn pulled him back, allowing the Dj to gasp for air. 

Sid almost going completely limp on the floor, held up by Shawn’s hand. The Dj’s lips slick, green flecked eyes unfocused, face a shade of blush pink. Sid made a happy tittering sound, tilting his head to look up at Shawn as if asking if he did a good job. Shawn, ignoring the Dj’s pleading gaze, instead looked to Paul, who was breathing heavily, head tilted to the side. The bassist caught in a current afterglow, though inside his head there was a small persistent thought of Chris,  _ who was unfortunately not currently between his thighs _ .  _ No where fucking near him actually.  _ His release felt empty, even as afterglow tingled in his veins. He could feel Shawn study him, but at the moment he didn’t much care. The clown could think whatever he wanted. Luckily another loud needy sound came from Sid, prompting Shawn to lean down and kiss the Dj's pink flushed cheek.  _ “Good boy,”  _ Sid letting out a strange purring at the clown's words, his eyes tracing along the bassist’s face, metal teeth exposed in a sneer, even as his lips were still dripping ejaculant and spit. 

A soft huffing sound grabbed Paul’s attention, looking up to see Shawn; who was tracing fingers along the side of Sid’s throat, grinning as he teasingly tugged on the large ring through the Dj’s ear, which made the younger man whine.

“Alright Sid, time for a shower,” The Dj making a vague clicking sound in the back of his throat. Shawn sighed, gaze flicking to Paul, cocking an eyebrow, silently asking if the bassist also wanted to shower, getting a slight gesture to reply that he didn’t. Shawn nodded, attention shifting back to the Dj, who was now humming broken little tunes to himself. “C’mon,” Sid raising an arm to loop around the back of the clown neck, said clown leaning down to wrap an arm around Sid’s ribs, lifting him up until the Dj was half-standing on his unsteady knees. The clown sighing as he supported most of the younger man’s weight. Sid tittered gleefully, raising his free hand to wave at Paul, who exhaled sharply. 

_ “Thanks for the fun, Piggie,”  _

_ “Fuck you,”  _ Sid giggled and made kissy noises, Shawn ignoring the both of them as he escorted the younger tattooed man towards the bathroom. Paul watched as the pair disappeared, the shower soon started running. Paul sighed, trying to steady his emotions roiling in his gut, the key one being a sick feeling of regret that clogged up his throat. The bassist tugged off his shirt using it to clean up the mess Sid had left between his thighs, though eventually, he tossed the shirt away, giving up and zipping back up his jeans. Crawling back into the bed, avoiding the side where Sid had sat his bare ass down on the pillows, pushing said pillows off the bed and settling down on the other side. Too tired to strip off the rest of his clothes, simply pulling the luckily still clean sheets over him, not as if he needed many blankets anyway, he had a tendency to run warm-blooded. 

He squeezed his eyes shut as he heard the bathroom door click open, someone stepping out. Just judging by the sound of those few footsteps he knew it was Shawn, he could feel the man’s eyes claw into his back. 

_ “Thought you were going Celibate,”  _ The man’s voice was low, muttered with the edge of a laugh. Paul grunted. The clown clicking his tongue.  _ “Look,”  _ Paul was very much not in the mood to listen to the older man’s rambling, “It’s none of my business who you fuck, but, about you and Chris,” The bassist stiffened, “Don't let it interfere with the band, _ Alright?”  _ The silence thick until Paul finally relented a grumbled out a  _ ‘fine’,  _ which satisfied the clown, the man humming. Bathroom door clicking shut again as the man disappeared back inside. Paul knew he was lying, the clown probably knew it too, but the man had enough common scenes not to push it at the moment. 

_ ‘Don't interfere with the band’  _ Yeah fucking right, it's not like Paul would kill the man.  _ Probably.  _ The bassist growled at the thought. He wouldn’t do that. No.  _ No.  _ Sure he was jealous, Sure, but not that far. Not that extreme, sometimes he just had to teach the man a lesson. Yeah, that sounded right.  _ A lesson. _

His fingers getting the subtle buzzing numbness that always crept throughout his entire body when his brain was going a bit haywire; Some old therapist had told him it was a defense mechanism. He’d scoffed at her. A few old memories daring to try to bubble up, the bassist squeezing his eyes shut tighter, taking short measured breaths. Distracting himself with thoughts of Chris, the man’s body, and the sounds he made. Though a new thought squirmed in the back of his head, a brief worry of Chris, of what Jim and Craig were doing with his sweet little angel before something snapped and his brain went blank.  _ Not now. _ Thoughts of the man resigned to a subtle hum in the back of his skull, rage nipping at the edges of his psyche. Hands balling into white-knuckled fists  _ You can worry about that later, Pig.  _

The mattress wasn't the most comfortable, but it's not like it mattered at the moment. He was tired enough to fall asleep, and it’s exactly what he planned on doing.  _ The quicker to bed, the quicker to rise, makes a pig happy, healthy, and wise. And quicker to see his angel, ha!  _

Chris’s head was heavy against the pillow, his eye only having blinked open a while ago, though his entire body felt like lead. He could hear Craig’s tempoed but quiet breaths, stone-cold and passed out in the other bed. The percussionist shifting his focus and hearing Jim's soft exhales in the bed next to him, the tall man always had trouble sleeping and it made a little bit of Chris rejoice that the man was sleeping soundly even if he himself was awake and forced to endure a slew of emotions inside his head. A silent tear slipping from the percussionist's eyes, he hadn’t even noticed the build-up of wetness behind his eyes before they started to spill out. Sniffing as quietly as possible to try and stop the tears, embarrassment welling up in his gut. Debating quickly before he shifted, doing his best not to disturb the two other men as he quietly patted along the hotel room’s carpeted floor to the bathroom. Whose door, in his moment of emotion, he had forgotten to close before collapsing onto the floor. The percussionist curling up on the cold tile, he wished with everything he had that he could cry somewhere else, trying to keep away the bad memories that clawed just under his conscious psyche when his bare feet pressed to the tiles. The cold seeping into his bones, crying harder as he curled in on himself. Forehead pressed to his knees, the scars on his belly lighting up as if they were being cut open again by an invisible knife. He could feel glass pressing at his inside, pain spiking through his face, fuck, everything hurt, fuck, _ Fuck! The mixture of sugar and glass slashing at his insides, Paul was back, whispering in his ears that he loved Chris even as pain made the percussionist sob, razor sweet kisses pressed to his throat. His whole body trembling, with sickly sweet memories and-- _

“Chris?” The percussionist flinching, the voice soft and sleepy, though in his head it was undertone with Paul’s voice whispering  _ ‘Angel?’  _ in the exact same way. “Chris,  _ are you okay?”  _ The percussionist flinched again though not as harshly, the memories melting like chocolate away from him. Tears still wet and fresh on his cheeks, tilting his head up just enough to see Jim’s face. The tall man having sunk to his knees right beside Chris, though not daring to touch the man yet. The percussionist tried to speak, but his throat was too thick with emotion to choke anything out, only able to get out a strangled throaty sound of distress. The guitarist made a worried sleepy sound, moving closer to the percussionist, who didn’t move away from the man; but instead almost prayed for something to ground him. Trying to stop crying as he looked up into the hazel green of his bandmates eyes and nearly starting to cry harder. Jim moved closer, still not touching the other man in fear of rejection. Though Chris reached out a trembling hand to grab at anything he could to pull the man close. Jim understood and moved to sit right next to Chris, his side pressing to the percussionist’s. The man leaning to the side to rest against the guitarist, the taller man slinging an arm over Chris’s shoulders and humming softly. Chris huddling against Jim and sniffing, the man’s presents having dulled his mind for a second, enough to choke out a strangled apology, which made Jim sleepily huff. 

_ “Why’re you sorry?” _

_ “F-for wakin’ you up,”  _ Chris sniffed again, huddling closer to the man’s side. Jim’s thumb rubbing along Chris’s shoulder. 

_ “Is fine, Chris, I promise,”  _ Jim let the percussionist whimper and sob again, watching as Chris steadied his breathing and eventually looked up at him again. The guitarist's voice as gentle as possible,  _ “You okay?”  _ Chris only sniffed in reply. “Are you--,” Jim inhaled to settle his voice before continuing,  _ “Are you cryin’ ‘bout Paul?”  _ Tears welled up behind Chris’s blue eyes again as the bassist was mentioned, the words and things the man had done flooding back and threatening to overwhelm him again, heart racing. Only steadied by Jim, who squeezed him closer and made a comforting shushing sound.  _ “Do you think it will help to talk about it or. . .''  _ Chris made a desperate noise in the back of his throat, his hand shifting to clutch at the front of Jim’s shirt, not sure of what to do. 

_ “I-- I d-don’t know,”  _ The calming feeling of Jim’s presents getting Chris’s breath to slow, and his heart to beat in a less frantic manner. The guitarist let out a shaky sigh. 

_ “I know he hurt you,”  _ Chris’s body tensed, 

_ “Y-yeah. . .” _

“And I _know_ it’s not j-just on your face, and s-stomach” Chris’s throat thickening with tears again, only able to choke out another strangled ‘yeah’. Jim’s voice unsure and cautious, a trembling edge to it as if he was afraid to hurt the percussionist. _“How did he h-urt you, Chris?”_ A desperate part of him begging his mouth to tell Jim all the ways that Paul had hurt him, and the other battling that the man had apologized and that it was all fine, even if Chris was hesitant to fully believe either. Frantically letting out a whimper, his hand tightening its grip on Jim’s shirt. “Did you--” Jim’s voice catching, _“Did you even want those cuts,”_ The fear-filled part of him that had first dared to admit to the tall guitarist that anything had happened beyond a simple fuck or two in the first place taking over Chris’s body and forcing the man to shake his head no. _No, no, he hadn’t wanted any of this, but now he couldn’t help but feel something like love for Paul, no matter how much he hated it. He felt--_ ** _knew_** _that the man loved him. Even if it was filled with pain and blood and tears._

Even if Chris couldn’t see it Jim’s eyes had gone a bit wide. “fuck,  _ Chris,”  _ Jim only getting a whimper in reply as the man beside him on the bathroom floor trembled like he’d just relived a deep secret, something he wasn’t supposed to share,  _ which he had.  _ Jim wanted to hug the man until everything was better, taking up the wish by turning and enveloping Chris in a hug, the percussionist leaning his head against the crook of Jim’s neck and whimpering. The guitarist was about to start speaking again when he heard the percussionist’s voice; quiet and shaky and muffled against his shirt, barely audible under his broken tone. 

_ “I love him, Jim, but it hurt so bad, he fucked me on the floor, and it hurt and there were razors and blood n’ it fuckin’ hurt, he was d-drunk and I tried to get away and he would-n’t let me and-- shit,” _ Chris’s voice breaking, Jim only able to hug the sobbing man closer to his chest.  _ “I didn’t want it, and-- No, no, I did, but. . . Fuck, I love him, some of me doesn’t, it hurts-- I love him so much, And he--”  _

_ “He raped you,”  _ Chris’s whole body went stiff, head going haywire, desperately scrambling to get out of the guitarist’s grip, the man only holding him tighter.  _ “He ra-” _

_ “No, No, n-no he didn’t! He lo-ves me and he a-apologized, and it’s fine, sometimes it hurts, but it's okay. He is sorry. Paul wouldn’t do that, Jimmy, He wouldn’t...he wouldn’t….”  _

_ “He did,”  _

_ “No. . .”  _ Chris had stopped fighting, letting himself go limp in the guitarist's arms, his face pressed into the man’s chest, an unconscious thought in his mind surprised that his voice hadn’t woken up Craig as well. Chris let himself cry into the man’s chest, his head felt like some had bashed it in repeatedly with a nail ridden baseball bat. The taller man was crying as well, silent tears slipping down his face at the state of his friend, his heart panged with guilt that he couldn’t help the man. 

_ “Chris,”  _ The percussionist flinching at the man’s quiet voice, “I know you love him,  _ but-- you can’t let him keep hurting you,”  _ Getting the percussionist to whimper, his own voice still choked and raw from crying, 

_ “I k-know, Peaches, but I just--” _ Jim pulled away and moved his hands to cup Chris’s face, both their cheeks stained with tears as they looked at each other. 

_ “P-please, Chris,”  _ Their eyes met, another wave of tears spilling down the percussionist's face as he took a deep shuddering breath, 

“I--  _ i’ll try,”  _ Jim hesitantly nodded, this time staring into Chris’s water blue eyes for a second longer as if he was trying to see into the percussionist mess of a mind before pulling the man back into the hug. The both of them shaking as they sat on the bathroom floor bonded together. 

Eventually, the pair move back to the bed with Jim’s encouragement, Chris passing out as soon as his head hit the pillow. And underlying simmering anxiety deep in his gut that he was too tired to think about in any capacity at the moment. Not dreaming of anything but darkness occasionally sparky by little golden stars. 

  
  
  
  


The next few days weren’t too bad, beyond a cramped schedule. Chris stayed closer to Jim than he usually would, even compared to after the first time they’d talked on the bus, the man acting as somewhat of a reprieve from everything. The two of them often sitting together on the new bus the band had just gotten, Chris making a few quiet jokes that made Jim snort. Though he could feel Paul’s eyes dig into his skin every time he got a little too close to the guitarist. Chris tried to ignore it as the man hadn’t said anything beyond grumbling under his breath whenever he and Chris got the chance to be alone together. The bassist stealing a kiss or two whenever he got the opportunity, which never failed to make Chris blush. The percussionist almost tempted to kiss the man back a few times, if not for the prying eyes all over the bus that would jump at the paternity to crack jokes and poke at him if he did. 

The bus they’d gotten was big. Two stories actually, having a small hatch leading out to the roof that Sid had tried to wriggle out of so he could dance on the roof, Shawn dragging him down much to the Dj’s dismay. The larger bus had eight bunks, though of course, one had to be spared for the driver. And for the sake of their collective sanity, which admittedly sat on rocky foundations, to begin with, Shawn had decided that two of them would rotate out sleeping and traveling one of the smaller buses. Allowing whoever wanted to be isolated with one other person and driver for however long the bus ride was to fight for it. The first few nights the position dominated by Craig and Mick. No one challenged Craig because the man needed quiet anyway, and no one challenged Mick, Because well, it was Mick. Though a few others, including Chris, volunteered for the position and were put on a makeshift waiting list which was duct-taped to the mini-fridge of the bus like a family do-to list. 

_ “Thank Christ, _ thought we’d never escape them,” Chris snorted at the taller man’s remark, tossing his beg onto the bed that was comfortably his for the night. Jaw popping as he yawned, already dead tired from the day’s events. He and Jim were lucky to snag the position on the smaller bus, Chris having begged with Craig, who relented and patted the percussionist on the head before silently nodding to signify his stand down. Chris had no idea how Jim had managed to convince Mick to step down from the bus, but the percussionist had a sneaking suspicion after seeing Jim stumble out of a hotel room he’d shared with the other guitarist and looking like he'd definitely not been in control of his long legs. As well as once seeing the two tall men disappearing from a party together with no further explanation. Chris blushing a bit at the thought of the two, quickly shaking it off. The feeling of Jim’s hand on his shoulder almost causing him to jump, Jim muttering an apology. 

“Chris, umm. . .Has anything else happened with Paul?” Chris gulped and shook his head. Nothing much had happened really, busy schedules were a blessing and a curse. Chris let out a shuddering sigh, as Jim’s hand temporarily tightened its grip as a sign of comfort. “Hey, _hey, I’m sure it’ll be okay,_ _everything’s fine, Chris,”_ The percussionist sniffed and grabbed Jim’s hand, taking a second before looking up at the man with a small smile. 

“Y-yeah, let's hope so,” Jim nodded, squeezing Chris’s shoulder again before letting go. The percussionist let out another shaky breath as he started to unpack a few things from his bag. Listening to Jim as the taller man made his way to the front of the bus to chat with the driver, who Chris hadn’t really noticed enter the bus. The man seemed nice enough, he and Jim chatting a bit about the drive ahead. The radio affixed to the dashboard crackling to interrupt them, the driver answering, then telling Jim something. The taller man heading back to Chris. 

“We’ll be headin’ out in about 20 minutes, If we’re quick we can swing by the 7/11 across the street and pick up some stuff,” Chris nodded again, making sure to grab his wallet before he and Jim headed out of the bus and across the parking lot; The guitarist making sure to tell the driver they’d be back in a second. 

The Isles of the convenience store was seemingly identical to any other. Chris had noticed that ever since being able to travel, and that was that no matter where you were, all convenience stores felt like home; mostly due to the fact as a rebellious teenager he’d spent a fair amount of his time in and out of the things. Chris perusing the cheap snacks aisle while smiling at the memory of one time an old friend had taken an old plastic beach bucket and filling it up with Slurpee, The 7/11 employees face was priceless as the teen hauled it up to the counter and slapped down not nearly enough money to pay for it. Coming back to reality, Chris grabbed a bag of cheap knock-off brand Cheetos and a pack of peanut butter M&M’s. Wandering over to join Jim, who was glaring at the rows of soda in one of the fridges, already holding a packet of twinkies. Chris going into the fridge and grabbing a Doctor Pepper and handing it to Jim, the taller man cocking an eyebrow, Chris smiling. 

“You always choose Pepsi and regret it,” The guitarist let out a huffing sound. The two of them heading up to the counter to pay, Chris grabbing a packet of gum as well, and Jim purchasing a pack of Marlboro Golds. The guitarist checking his watch after shoving the pack of cigarette in his pocket, 

“We’ve got seven minutes,” Chris snorted, walking beside Jim as they crossed the street back to the parking lot where the buses were. 

“Even if we were late, Sid would have kept us from leaving for an extra ten or so,” The comment getting a huffing laugh from the other man while they crossed the parking lot back to the smaller bus, climbing inside. 

The bus ride was fine, certainly better than it would have been on the bigger bus with the rest of their bandmates. At one point Jim getting a frantic text from Corey about Shawn refusing to stop talking about the in-depth philosophical meaning behind the cosmos, and just about driving everyone mad. To quote the singer,  _ “He’s going full Sockratase mode dude fucking Help!!!” _ Which made both Jim and Chris burst into laughter due to the singer’s inability to correctly spell things. 

Buses eventually arrived at the venue parking lot around midday. Chris being shaken awake by Jim and told to start getting ready for the show. The percussionist groaning, tempted to just ignore the other man and just sleep for the rest of the day, show be damned. Though he did at some point drag himself out of the small cubby of a bunk, stumbling out of the bus to meet up with a few of other bandmates to grab breakfast from some cheap convenience store food aisle or stealing from the venue catering. Because apparently, Sid had a secret ability to shove four Costco Brand croissants in his pockets at once without getting caught. 

Chris chewing half-heartedly on a cheap croissant while sitting on top of one of the speakers that the roadies had unpacked and hadn’t moved up to the stage yet. Kicking his feet while watching all the people buzzing around the grounds, snickering as one of the roadies dropped something and yelled out a chorus of creative swears. Finally hopping down when he’d finished his breakfast, heading back to the bus to start fully prepping for the show. A bit of him dreading having to put on the bondage hood and mask, and most of the rest of him dreading having to be on stage with his bandmates, no matter how many times he’d done it before. 

All things considered, the show wasn't the worst they’d had. Not in terms of how they played, it was as chaotic and energetic as always, but in terms of injuries, it had been a little worse than was typical. Corey somehow ending up with a gash down his arm, which Craig had stitched up. The quiet man serving as an impromptu medic. Because apparently the rank smell and reputation of their band was enough to keep most of the normal medics away unless someone was actually dying. Which, judging by their tendencies, wouldn’t even be surprising. 

Chris was tired, as was typical after a show. The rest of the band much the same, most wanting to drink but not out at a bar. A collective decision to simply pile onto the larger tour bus parked in the back lot of a seedy motel to play cards and get drunk without their managers or the roadies bothering them. Chris grabbed his bag from the smaller bus as he’d be switching bunks with Craig tonight, heading back to the two-story bus to toss the bag in a bunk that hopefully didn’t smell much like old lived-in dust, the smell of people really, sometimes Chris couldn’t stand the scent. And sometimes even the new buses had it if you knew what you were looking for. Luckily for him the bunk only smelled vaguely of Craig, which was fine; the man made an effort to not smell like he’d just taken a bath in a pool of used groupie underclothes. Chris commended him for that.

The driver of the bus had chatted with Shawn before disappearing off the bus to who knows where, though not before giving them a brief warning that he would be back in the morning and to not absolutely destroy the bus. 

They’d all started drinking almost immediately. Even Craig grabbing a beer and setting in to play poker at the moderately sized table installed in the bus's lower section. Shawn, Sid, Joey, and Jim joining the sampler in a few rounds, though even if someone dropped out from anger or a mandatory-smoke-break another person would soon fill their place. Corey who’d been cut off from playing cards at some point earlier in the night, due to his current heavy intoxication and habit of getting a bit too mad if he lost dramatically, was now sitting on the couch opposite Chris. The percussionist had been watching the card game, mind patchy from his own alcoholic adventures, which had put in him a bit of a stupor and forbade him from leaving the couch unless he wanted to fall on his head. 

Corey was picking absentmindedly at his new stitches while staring at Chris, the percussionist shifting uncomfortably but not saying anything. Instead looking around the bus, spying Mick laying as best he could fit on one of the couches, his legs in Jim’s lap. The two tall men engaged in a quiet drunken conversation about who nose what, Jim’s nose and cheeks flushed beat red as his words slurred and he let out small drunken hiccups. Mick matching him with the occasional chuckle, his face cheeks also a bit flushed from alcohol. Chris got a little happy feeling in his chest when he saw Jim’s smile. The percussionist's gaze shifted again. Now looking over to the table where a few of the band were still engaged in a poker game. Sid giggling like a madman as he stared at his cards, the man was drunk off his ass on what was some strange mixture of vodka, various sugary sodas, and caffeine-high energy drinks that the Dj had somehow acquired, mixing it all in a large water bottle and drinking it down like it was normal. The Dj half sitting in Shawn’s lap and still acting like he wasn't while the clown looked indifferent to the whole situation, looking at Sid’s cards in what would technically be considered cheating if not for the fact everyone was too inebriated to notice or care at this point. Joey was next to Sid at the table, the drummer was desperately trying to squint at his own cards and figure out what he had in his hand to win the round and not lose any more money to Craig. Said sampler sitting a little looser than normal, posture slanting a little to the left as he grinned and threw down his cards on the table, giggling as he won another round. Joey clearly kicked the sampler in the shins under the table in retaliation for another victory, as the typically quiet man made a surprise grunting sound before bursting into another round of drunken giggles. 

Chris’s eyes finally drawn to the last man sitting at the table, who he’d been intentionally trying to keep his eyes off since the beginning of the night. Paul was grinning, snorting at Joey who was trying to loudly convince the rest of the table that Craig had actually been cheating. Chris’s drunken mind drowned out all the bad thoughts of the man, eyes roving over the man  _ and-- _ Chris made a muted gurgling sound as he felt a body press up against his. Any outright protests he could have made smothered by the rough lips enveloping his. Tasting of liquor and cigarettes, a combination that to most people would be unpleasant but Chris had gotten used to a long time ago. An instinct to kiss back took over Chris, so far from sober that all conscious thoughts of Paul had dropped for his head like a crowbar tossed from a hot air balloon for the moment. Corey making a humming sound, tilting his head to worm his tongue into the percussionist's mouth.

Chris whimpered, almost regaining enough brain functions to try and pull away. An underlying fear of something tugging at him, beyond the general embarrassment of drunkenly making out with one of his bandmates in front of everyone. Then again, he’d done worse things in front of them.  _ As they all refused to let him forget.  _

The mouth was drooling and wet against his own as the singer made drunken sounds that buzzed down Chris’s throat. The man’s hands moved down the percussionist's body to slip under his shirt and touch the warm skin of Chris’s abdomen, just so barely grazing over parts of the scars that still contrasted against the pale skin. Corey surely able to tell the difference in the texture of the skin, but it seemed like the singer didn’t register it or didn’t care. Hands continuing up under Chris’s shirt, fingers grazing along Chris’s sides. The drunken percussionist flinching at the touches, but not able to pull away despite a part of him biting and urging him too, for his own safety and for Corey’s. _ Even if he almost still believed Paul wouldn’t really hurt him or the singer right in front of their bandmates.  _

Even if he was trapped in his one head just a bit, Chris could feel Corey rut up against him, the singer groaning; his teeth nipping at Chris’s bottom lip. The percussionist couldn’t help but moan something that sounded vaguely like Corey’s name. The singer grunting into his mouth and digging his nails into Chris’s skin. A far away giggling from Sid, who sounded like he was saying their names in a singsong kind of way. Chris heard someone shout Paul’s name, which made the percussionist's blood run cold. Then Corey was yanked off. Chris yelping and scrambling up to sit upright. The full attention of every other person on the bus now focused on them. 

Paul’s face was fixed in a snarl, holding Corey up by the collar of his shirt and glaring into the shorter man’s eyes. Tension about as thick as it could get without it physically clouding up the air around them. Corey was grabbing at the bassist's wrists, one hand pushing at the man’s chest, loudly voicing his dislike of the current scenario, Chris watching on with bated breath; fear pooling in his belly. The only thing besides Corey’s drunken protesting was the, for now, quiet sounds of Sid snickering under his breath. 

_ “C’mon Paul, -hic-  _ I jus’ wanted to  _ -hic-  _ have some fun with the whore,” Corey sounded annoyed, his words slurred as Chris’s eyes got progressively wider as Paul looked more and more ready to kill something or  _ someone  _ in this case.  _ “You gotta share sometimes, Paulie,”  _ A sharp  _ crack  _ was followed by Corey’s body crumpling to the ground, Paul was downright seething with anger, his fist still outstretched where he’d punch Corey across the face. The whole bus now in shocked silence, even Sid, who was for once in his life taking the situation with a dash of maturity, had gone quiet. The singer gurgling on the floor, a trickle of blood seeping from the corner of his lip as his head tilted to the side. 

Chris not able to process what had happened before he was being yanked up from the couch, mouth trying to choke out a plea for something; what he wasn’t even sure himself. The percussionist’s legs barely able to keep him upright, the world spinning and off-kilter, the only thing keeping him upright was the bassist’s hand knotted in the front on his shirt. The entire tour bus felt like it had suddenly turned into a boat in the middle of a storm as Chris was forcedablily pulled towards the stairs at the back of the bus, all he could focus on was fury emanating from Paul and the fact no one was trying to help him as he was dragged up the stairs. Managing to cast a single teary glance back and see the drunk-flushed shocked face of Jim before another sharp jerk on the front of his shirt caused him to trip and stumble up the stairs and out of view. 

_ “I-- I’ve never seen Paul like that,”  _

_ “. . . Yeah, he’s-- I don't know,”  _

_ “Think Corey’s gonna be okay?”  _

_ “He’s taken worse than that,”  _

_ “What the fuck. . . what the fuck, What The Fuck?!” _

_ “Relax Jimmy, They’ll probably fuck and make up, It’ll be fine,”  _

_ “No, no this is b-bad,”  _

_ “Shhhh relax, Peaches,”  _

_ “No, this is so very bad, I need to-- I can’t --, Chris s-said, ” _

_ “Let’s get you some fresh air, c'mon, Peaches,” _

_ “You think he’ll kill Chris? I know he got a kn--” _

_ “Sid, not the time,”  _

The second story of the bus was more cramped, a long aisle of bunks with a larger bedroom area at the back that at the moment was serving as a storage space, as well as a bathroom. Not that Chris was interested in the logistics of the bus’s layout as he was marched up the stairs, as they reached the top; Chris’s instincts finally kicked in. Managing to twist out of Paul’s grip, and back away from the man. The fear once pooling in his gut now simmering into a tiny flame of anger, blue eyes hardening with the confidence of liquor fueling them. 

“What the _ fuck,  _ Paul?!” Chris glaring at the bassist who was standing in front of the only way to freedom. The man was angry, anyone could have figured that out, though Chris could see something else under it.  _ Pain, like a deep unhealed scar inside the man.  _ But at the moment, the percussionist couldn’t care less, still glaring at the man.  _ “You can’t just fuckin’ hit Corey?”  _ Paul didn’t even respond verbally, his eyebrows furrowing as he started to slowly stalk closer to Chris. The percussionist unconsciously bracing himself for what the man could do, even if he didn’t back down. “Shit, Paul,  _ why?”  _ Chris’s drunkenness only partly slurring his words, anger making tears well in the blue eyes.  _ He always did hate that he would cry when he got mad.  _ Chriss sniffing, his feet shifting back a bit only to discover he was trapped against the back of one of the bunks, the fo-wood paneling pressing to his back and preventing him from moving further away from the bassist as the fearful part of his brain would have liked. “You can’t  _ just . . . ”  _ The words died on Chris’s tongue as Paul finally stood directly in front of him, the bassist arms framing either side of his head, the man’s dark eyes now more black than a starless night sky.  _ Oh fuck.  _

_ “He was going to fuck you,”  _ The man’s voice a mix of venom and honey as he spoke. Chris about to argue back when a far too gentle hand came to rest on the side of his face, cupping his cheek.  _ “I can’t let him do that to you, Chris,”  _

_ “B-but  _ you fuckin’ punched him! _ ”  _ The dark eyes narrowing, Paul’s breathing measured to restrain his rage for the time being. 

_ “What,  _ did you want to let him fuck you?  _ Is that what you want?”  _ Chris’s eyes went wide, he had stopped breathing now, the hand on his face tightening its grip to a painful degree.

_ “Okay, okay ‘m sorry, please, can we talk or something, Please, I just--”  _ Chris was talking rapidly as if that would bring the bassist back, but he was ignored. 

“Thought I’d fucked the whore out of you,  _ but no,”  _ Paul chuckled with venom on his tongue, the familiar numbness of old pain filling his body.  _ “You’re fucking  _ **_mine,_ ** _ Chris,”  _

Paul’s hand moved fast to knot it Chris’s hair, which had been loose around the percussionist's shoulders, the strands now firmly tangled in the bassist's grip. Chris yelping and trying desperately to free himself from the man’s grip, only for it to tighten. Making the percussionist let out a pained half scream as his head was yanked back to collide with the bunk, skull throbbing from pain. Moved forcefully again, away from the back of the bunk to into the aisle. His feet unsteady already. 

Then all air was knocked out of him as he was thrown down onto his side onto the floor of the bus. Gasping for breath as his body thudded against the floor, his limbs felt immovably heavy for a second as he gagged on lack of oxygen in his lungs. He could have sworn the cuts on his lower belly opened back up. Laying limp even as a bit of air seeped back into him, only for Paul's body to pin him down and knock even the bit of air back out of his lungs. Chris tried to yelp breathlessly before a hand slammed down over his mouth, muffling any sound he might make. The bassist was sitting on top of Chris, still seething with deadly quiet anger, the man under him starting to squirm. The percussionist's head throbbed, his instincts to fight and try to get away not completely gone if not reinvigorated by the liquor in his blood. Chris felt like he was back on the bathroom floor, back where he was before with pain and razors. Letting out a muffled cry against the bassist's rough palm. If his mouth wasn't cover it would have sounded something like  _ ‘fucking stop please,’  _ Chris squeezing his eyes closed. 

Paul recoiled, hand now bloody as it left Chris’s face. The percussionist’s lips stained in crimson, as he looked up at the other man. Chris had bitten quite hard at the hand that was over his mouth in a drunken effort to save himself, drawing blood. Chris trembled, now paralyzed by fear as Paul shifted to stand, no longer pinned him to the floor. The man studied the bite mark on his hand as he stood over Chris, who shook the shock of what he’d done wearing off a bit, though his limbs still refused to move and his vocal cords seemed more akin to thick unstretchable rubber bands than anything used to help him scream for help. 

The first kick was fast and painful to his side. Chris choked on the contents of his stomach that suddenly rushed up to the back of his throat. Gagging as he tried to swallow it back down, his body tipping onto its side as a bit of sick he hadn’t managed to swallow back down trickled from his lips and onto the smooth cold floor of the tour bus. A cough ripping from his lips as his esophagus burned with a mixture of stomach acid diluted with liquor. The percussionist's mind was swirling with confusion and pain, most thoughts more emotion than coherence. 

The percussionist body subconsciously prepared for another kick, as he curled into himself, shielding his belly from the man’s anticipated attacks. Instead, Chris’s jaw was grabbed, roughly angled so Paul could shove what was luckily a semi-clean pair of wadded up socks into his forced open mouth. Chris recoiling and trying to wrench his face away, only succeeding in making the man’s grip on his jaw tighten. The taste of the fabric in his mouth was foul, but not the worst thing he’d tasted, at least it wasn’t underwear or something. 

A terrible groaning sound came from Chris as he was promptly flipped over and slammed onto the floor of the bus, his hands trying to scramble and get the socks out of his mouth before his wrists were grabbed by Paul. His face pressing to the floor, cheek smearing with the sick he’d choked up earlier, only further degrading his current situation. Drunkenly struggling to escape the other man’s grip, only getting Paul to grunt and tighten his hold. 

Chris was laying flat-bellied on the floor, legs sprawled out with Paul settled between them. The percussionist's arms held by his wrists near the small of his back, shirt hitched up a bit as the man continued to squirm and let out muffled sounds through the socks shoved in his mouth. The hem of Chris’s jeans pulled down along with his boxers, the man only struggling harder until a sharp slap rang out, a whimpering sound following it. A red print started to form on Chris’s ass cheek. Giving enough time for the jeans to be yanked down further before Chris could start protesting again, trying to desperately twist away only for another slap to shock him for a second. Chris making more sounds of pain.

Due to the liquor clouding his senses, and most of his critical thinking skills devolved into a panic, Chris tried to drag up his knees under him like he was attempting to crawl and get away. Only to result in a hand unlocking from his wrists and then both hands hooking right at the bending on his thigh and abdomen, pulling hard and causing him to practically fold in half. Chris now uses his arms to try and support himself up, a hand leaving his hip and knotting in his hair, pulling at the tangled hair hard enough to make Chris whimper and grab at the hand with shaky fingers. A muffled plea from his mouth to stop, jaw working to try and get the socks shoved in his mouth out, though he couldn’t with all the other things clouding his head. 

The rough texture of Paul’s jeans scraped against Chris’s ass, the now quite obvious erection under the fabric pressed to the percussionist exposed backside. The man only shook harder and tightened his grip on Paul’s wrist. His brain short-circuiting. Paul rutting against Chris’s body, the bassist grunting and muttering to himself. The hand still locked in Chris’s hair forcing the percussionist face down onto the floor, rubbing his face back in the sick, Chris choking from behind the gag in his mouth. The man getting a final spurr of adrenaline, twisting out to Paul's grip, a good chunk of hair tore out as the hand in his hair refused to let go. Scrambling forward as quickly as he could and using a hand to rip the socks out of his mouth, spit dribbling down his chin as he tossed them away and continued his escape. Twisting over onto his back and weakly kicking his legs at the other man who had just started to reach for him again. Chris’s ankle caught in a tight hold but not before the percussionist's other foot collided with Paul’s stomach. Causing the bassist to grunt and cough; Taking a second before his face contorted in anger and he dragged Chris toward him by the man’s ankle. The percussionist yelping and trying to kick again, before was trapped under the other man. Who was leerning down at Chris from his position once again in between the percussionist’s legs, catching a hand that had tried to hit him and pinning it to the floor at a painful angle. Chris hissed, gurgling as he spit out a curse under his breath. The percussionist not daring to raise his other arm that had been trapped under him in the struggle. 

“Fuck you,” Paul narrowed his eyes as Chris repeated it again, this time with added drunken venom in his voice. The bassist almost flinched, _“Fuck you,”_ There was pain and fear and hatred mixing in the percussionist's voice. _“Fuck y--,”_ The word cut off with a choking gasp, a hand had shot up to wrap tightly around the percussionist's throat, squeezing to cut off any hope of air. Chris’s eyes went wide, trying to escape the tight grip of the hand, gagging for breath. No longer caring about pain as he tried desperately to twist his other arm out from under him, finally getting it free to claw at Paul's wrist. The edge of his vision going hazy, mouth open wide, drooling down his face, his nails digging into the bassist's skin so hard it bled and yet the man didn’t let go. Chris’s mouth moving like a grounded fish, silent scream for help on his tongue, body spanning, eyes wild, darkness seeping into his vision, fingers going numb. 

Chris’s vision finally exploded in little white stars, his head slamming into the floor of the bus. The hand at his throat gone, though he was yet to be able to actually suck in a breath. Lungs burning. He finally coughed, hard. Entire body trembling as he gasped in a breath. It hurt to breathe, whole body tingley, head filled with cotton, esophagus raw. Chris let out a broken whimper as he felt fingers gently caress his throat, not choking him again, but threatening too. Chris tried to move his hand, which had fallen to his side at some point, though it didn’t respond, even twitching his finger like moving a mountain. Blue eyes blinking up at the ceiling, the lights there blurry, nothing had sharp edges. 

The pressure of the other man’s body against his own suddenly gone. Chris still couldn’t move, head lulling to the side, eyes welling with tears. A pathetic small sound was whimpering from Chris’s throat, the sound raw and painful. Despite the numbness aching up his body, he could feel a pair of hands lock onto his hips. Flipping him over so his face once again pressed to the floor of the bus. His head throbbed with pain, eyes practically rolled into the back of his head. Chris could feel the hand move his body into what must have been a satisfactory position. His own arms grabbed and bonded by the wrists with what was probably a spare shirt, tied so tight his fingers tingled. Chris still too out of it to even resist the tight binding of his wrists together. It was still difficult to breathe, his legs having been bent under him not even counting in the awkward angle of his head against the floor, drool leaking from his mouth. 

A hand caressing down his spine, much too painless and affectionate. He flinched at the sound of a zipper, the little part of his brain still trying to fight getting his body to squirm and tremble. A weak sound from his throat. A large hand regripping his hips and keeping his still, he could hear flesh on flesh, the hand on his hips dug fingers into his skin. Blunt black painted nails near breaking through the skin. Chris’s eyes screwed shut, he could feel something warm slide in between his asscheeks. It felt wrong, a violation, and yet familiar. He’d gotten nearly used to the feeling of violation, a bout of nausea rushing over him.  _ No. No, that was bad.  _ Chris was muttering to himself, letting out another weak noise when the barbell piercing through the underside of the dick scraped along his hole. There was barely any lube to speak off, only the man’s precum and spit. And Chris  _ knew for a fact  _ that wasn't going to be enough. 

The sickeningly intimate feeling of the steel ring pressing against him made Chris want to scream, but his throat was locking up. His eyes burning behind their lids as tears, like acid, brewed in them.

_ He was helpless, alone, and back on the bathroom floor, And there was nothing he could do about it. All thoughts of trying to save himself drown out of his head and replaced with pure terror and helplessness. Worse than before.  _ Tears spilling down his face,  _ He’d really brought this upon himself hadn’t he? It’ll all be over at some point. Just wait, he just had to wait. Just be quiet and wait for everything to be over.  _

Pain started to pierce through him, not just physically, as something deep in his head felt like it shattered into a million pieces again when it had just put itself back together. The dick had started to force into him, painful and unwanted.  _ Like before, Like in the hotel the first night, and in the bathroom, and--  _ Chris’s brain short-circuited, a noise of raw pain from his throat. He wasn't sure how far the cock was in him, but it fucking  _ hurt.  _ He could swear that he was bleeding, even the notion made him make another sound, louder but nowhere near loud enough to call for help. That is if anyone cared to help him.  _ Jim would help him. Jim would. But, did he really want the man to see him like this? He already bared his soul to the man, he could lie to spare the man more worry. Yeah, that could work.  _ Chris whined again, his teeth grit so tight they might crack. Every second felt like millennia and yet flashed by quick enough to make him nauseous. Another inch, another barbell, another flash of pain, Chris choking up a bit of the contents of his stomach as the man behind him muttered and grunted. The percussionist tried desperately, with all the mental capacity he had left, to numb himself, escaping from his body like he’d done before.

Chris gagging as the man’s hips jolted forward, it felt like the thing was already at his throat, burning like a red hot iron bar.  _ Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.  _ His head was spinning, almost willing himself to pass out so he could get a brief respite. Now both of the large hands were locked on his hips, dragging Chris back toward him so their bodies could eventually meet at the hip. Every minutiae movement sparking a sound from Chris, more pain than pleasure. If there was any pleasure at all. 

Though to the bassist it didn’t really matter, the man so far gone any part of his mind screaming at him to stop and gather Chris up in his arms and sob was resigned to the back of his mind, locked under steel and key. The man grunted, slamming his hips forward to finally bury the rest of his dick inside the percussionist who yelped and trembled. Chris drooling onto the floor, every breath sputtered out of him accented by a sound of hitched pain. His whole body was of fire, burned at the stake. Blue eyes rolled up in the back of his head, his arms straining weakly against the shirt binding them together, managing to rip from threads of the fabric, before he went limp again.

Energy drained from him as he felt the man shift behind him, his insides felt like they were being ripped apart and long painful whine bubbling from his throat. The dick pulled out of him not more than an inch before jolting back in, the piercing rubbing at guts in a way that would have been pleasurable if in any other scenario. Chris’s own dick soft and trapped against his belly. His brain shutting off any even meager amount of enjoyment he could get from this. As if on cue Paul’s hips bucked into him again, harder than before, like he was trying to give the illusion that he’d started out slow. Which was a failure, as Chris whimpered; relaxing his body as if that would help the pain, muscles trying not to flinch and tense. It barely helped as the cock continued to ramp up its pace with each consecutive thrust and roll of the bassist’s hip. Chris could hear the man’s drunken panting, grunting something Chris couldn't and didn’t want to hear as the hands on his hips tightened their grip, the nails finally breaking through the skin and created crescents highlighted with beading crimson. 

_ “Fuck--  _ Chris,  _ Angel, you feel so good,”  _ Chris could feel sick crawling at his throat. Paul's voice hurt more than anything, the bassist grunting and panting out Chris’s name as he thrust his hips into the man.  _ “All for me, aren’t you?”  _ Chris could feel his body starting to shut down as another wave of pain washed over him. The edges of his vision getting hazy, he could no longer feel his fingers, nor his legs which were still folded under him. A hand unlatching from his hips and moving swiftly to lock in the brunette hair, pulling his face off the floor and getting the percussionist to mewl feebly. Drool connecting his face to the floor in thick strings mixed with sick. Pain fizzing through his scalp as the fist tightened in his locks, keep his head off the floor, spine arching back at an awkward angle. Chris made a choked sound, in return, the bassist growled. 

A shock of pain stabbing through Chris’s skull as his head was slammed back against the floor of the bus. The taste of blood flooding his mouth, the sound of dull ringing in his ears was the only thing he could hear as he slumped, the hand releasing his hair. At least his nose wasn't broken, he could tell that much, but his cheekbone throbbed. Blood staining his lips and teeth red, a pretty crimson against his sweaty skin. Chris could barely feel anything besides the jolts of pain at this point. The bassist's rhythm manic, though not entirely uncontrolled. The man grunting out curses. Chris whimpering loudly as a hand struck his outer thigh, sure to leave a bruise on the flesh. 

The percussionist’s throat was raw, his breathing ragged. He was on the edge of passing out, another hard buck of the other man’s hips causing him to finally choke out something coherent, even if he wasn't even sure what he was saying. But it caused the man’s thrusts to stutter to a halt. A quiet growl from the bassist's throat.  _ “What?”  _ Chris could only whimper, brain searching for any visage of what he could have said, fuzzy from pain and dilution.  _ “What the fuck did you say?”  _ Chris flinched at the tone of the man’s voice. Almost able to force his tongue to choke out an apology before he was wrenched back by his hips, fully skewering him on the cock again. Paul growled at the broken sound Chris made.  _ “Tell me, Chris, What did you say?”  _ The percussionist couldn’t get his vocal cords to work, only managing to gaga out a sound like a wounded animal left to die.  _ “Pity,”  _ The bassist's voice was almost amused, the cock pulled fully out of Chris with a feverish rush of agony zipping up the percussionist's spine. His lower body felt raw and used and terrible, his legs rife with pins and needles from their position. Fingers buzzing. 

Chris still lay helpless, eyes only slightly open, on the floor while he listened to the man behind him move, until he had settled in front of Chris. The percussionist whimpering as large hands grabbed the side of his head, holding it off the floor, thumbs hooking in the corners of his mouth. The digits now coated in a thin sheen of blood and spit. The blue eyes cloudy and far away as they looked up at Paul, who was sneering, pulling Chris closer until the tip of the bassist dick pressed to the man’s lower lip. The dick had precum smeared over the tip, the thing twitching as it rubbed across the percussionist’s mouth. Who was only able to make a small noise in the back of his throat. His mouth was still forced to stay open as the dick was guided in, the steel ring through the tip clicking off one of his teeth. The bassist growling as the underside of his cock pressed to Chris’s tongue, the supple warm texture getting the bassist to exhale sharply.  _ Not to mention that it was indeed Chris this time, despite everything.  _

The mouth slack and wet around the dick, he could feel the panting hot breaths coming from the man’s throat sending a shiver of excitement up the bassist's spine. He almost felt what could be called regret in the back of his mind as he looked down to see Chris’s face,  _ almost.  _ That sick part of him rearing its ugly head and urging him to shove his dick so far down the man’s throat that he’d never have to hear those words again. Sparked forward by the sight of Chris between his thighs, bloody drool dripping onto the floor. One of the hands hooked in the corners of the percussionist's mouth moved to unhook its thumb and instead use it to brush along the man’s cheekbone, which was already starting to bruise. The other hand sliding up to tangle in the man’s hair, the stringy locks catching on the fingers, holding the brunette's head up; the cock sliding further into his mouth, stretching his lips in the process. 

Paul grunted when he felt the man's throat contracted in a gag around just the tip of his dick. The percussionist already struggling to breathe and calm himself down even more, the new bout of torture was making it much harder to escape his own body. The terrible feeling of the dick pushing into his throat at the agonizingly slow pace was worse.  _ So much worse. _ Chris could hear something echoing in his head. Repeating it to himself as the first buck of the man’s hips made him choke, willing his throat to relax and make it hurt less.  _ Another day in paradise. Another day in paradise. . . _

_ You’ve been through this before. Just survive it again. You still love him, don’t you? He’ll kiss it better in the morning and then you’ll cry in his arms and you’ll have to explain to Jimmy that everything is fine. Yeah, Chris, Everything just sunshine and fucking rainbows. Sugar and Spice and Everything Nice, isn’t it?  _

_ But. . . you still love him, don't you?  _

_. . .  _

_ Awe, you really do.  _

Chris's jaw was still slack and sore, his tongue half lulled out of his mouth, forehead pressing to Paul’s stomach. He was struggling to breathe. His throat filled up with the cock and unable to suck in even a breath of air. He could feel his body jolt, face turning a deep shade of red, muffled whimpering rising from his chest. He could taste blood and salt and his own sick forced up from his throat with the earlier painful bucks of the man’s hips. The deep instinct to actually stay alive kicked in as dark started to cloud the edges of his mind, legs lazily trying to shift out from under him, which only accomplished getting him on his side one leg still bent up and the other sprawled out. Pins and needles buzzing up the limbs. His head tilting a bit to the side, the piercings dragging around his mouth and throat. 

The cock finally pulled almost all the way out of his mouth, the head caught just behind his lips, but it was enough for Chris to breathe hard through his nose. His body trembling as he tried to cough, his face returning to a more normal shade of pink. Head clearing for a moment as his breaths calmed. 

Then the thrusts started again, Chris praying that the man would finally get it over with; holding his breath as best he could. Nearly retching when the dick hit an unpleasant angle in his throat. His stomach flipping, the alcohol he’d ingested earlier in the evening daring to boil up and choke him. Gagging at the burning taste of acid licked up his esophagus. The hand in his hair tightening as the man grunted, chest heaving, fucking into Chris’s throat. Finally, the percussionist felt fluid rush down his throat, salty sweetness on his tongue mixing with the taste of blood already there as the bassist above him simply continued to fuck his throat through the orgasm. Chris forced to swallow in an effort not to choke. The combination of tastes in his mouth making his face twitch and stomach churn. The man above him almost slumping over and sucking in long breaths of air. 

The dick was pulled from Chris’s throat, exiting his lips with a nasty sound. The hand in his hair losing, Chris’s head falling to the floor. His already bruised cheekbone suffered more punishment and caused the brunette to let out a moan of pain. Face in the puddle of drool and blood on the floor. A small dribble of cum seeping past his lips and mingling with the crimson. He could hear the man’s breaths above him, then there were hands hooking under his armpits, dragging him up to the man’s chest, his legs positioned strangely under him, trembling in pain. One of the hands holding him upright while the other moved to caress the side of his face, tilting it upward so his murky once-bright blue eyes stared blankly at the other man’s face. The man leaning forward, pressing his mouth to Chris’s own. The percussionist gurgled out a broken sound as the taste of strong liquor joined the tastes in his mouth. The once sided kiss ending shortly, instead the man moving to kiss Chris’s forehead. 

The percussionist could only mewl, his body slumping against the man’s shoulder. The bassist shifting before thick arms surrounded Chris in a hug. The percussionist feeling the bindings around his wrists loosen with the sound of a knife cutting through the fabric, a knife that the other man had probably just pulled from his pocket.  _ He could have stabbed you, slit your throat, cut your dick off. Killed you.  _ The fabric tore away from his wrist and allowed blood to rush back to his hands, which were numb, his arms dropping limply to his sides.  _ But he didn’t.  _ Chris willing his fingers to move, whining at the feeling as a tingle sensation raced up his arms.  _ Must still love you.  _ Tears staining the bassist shirt and Chris sobbed into the fabric. 

The percussionist gurgled out a needy sound as the arms hugged around him again, head swimming. The large hands petting up and down his back. Eventually, the man moved away which pulled at something in Chris’s chest, though the feeling was quickly overshadowed by the desperate need to control his body and not slump over. Failing as he started to fall to one side, nearly smacking his head against a bunk before the hand grabbed back onto him. Catching the percussionist and dragging him up into the bassist's arms. Chris tried to control his hands enough to grip at the man’s shirt, clutching at the fabric like a lifeline. He could feel his body carried over to the bunk he’d been inhabiting the last few nights, the blankets messy and pillow squished against the wall. His hands still clutching at the bassist's shirt as he was set down on the thin mattress, only letting go when the other man’s hand moved to caress fingers across his fists, gently prying them off his shirt. Chris trembled as his hands dropped to the mattress, laying on his side and staring with glassy eyes at the man; Whose fingers had moved to pet over Chris’s bruised cheek, brushing hair out of the way. Fingers grazing down to Chris’s lips, which were still coated in slick. 

A sound rumbling from the bassist’s chest, stepping away from the bunk, taking a moment to return with the cut-up shirt used to bind Chris’s wrist. A hand gently grabbing Chris’s chin and tilting his head so the man could whip the percussionist's lips clean as best he could. The bassist's eyebrows knitting together as his gaze moved down the percussionist's body. Jeans yet to be pulled back to their proper position, almost to his knees. Shirt riding up to just under his ribs. Fresh bruises blossoming on the skin. Something like regret sparking behind the dark eyes, confused and drunkenly afraid of what the sick part of him had done.  _ What he had done.  _

__ A weak noise grabbing his attention, Chris started to curl in on himself heavy shuddering breaths wracking his body. Paul’s eyes widened as he dropped the ripped up fabric and grabbed onto the man’s shoulder, maybe a bit too hard as the percussionist let out a pained sound. The bassist tried to mutter something that would comfort the man, who had started to let out shaky sobs. Then a hand shot out to grab Paul’s wrist, so tight it caused the man to let go. 

_“H-hate you,”_ Chris’s voice was so raw and choked with tears, the words were barely distinguishable, his face tilted at an angle to expose a single glassy blue eye. Paul’s eyes widening, then his whole body slumped. All even a slight feeling of power drained out of him as he stumbled back from Chris’s bunk, the hand on his wrist falling limp to the mattress again. Paul could hear the word echoing in his head. _Chris hated him._ _Just like how he probably should._ The bassist pulled the curtain closed to the bunk, the sound of Chris sobbing persisting in his ears. Desperately wanting to tell the man it would all be okay. But that was a lie, he knew it and Chris knew it too. He wished the man had screamed for help, some of their bandmates rushing upstairs to drag Paul away. Maybe they’d send him back to a fucking mental institution. The shiver running up the bassist's spine at the flashing memory of white tiled floors and sanitized hallways. Paul’s throat tightening as he glanced around at the mess he’d caused, swallowing hard and leaning down to pick up the ripped up shirt again, looking at the blood that soaked part of it. _What the fuck was wrong with him._

Chris felt like the world was imploding on him, each breath a challenge as he curled in on himself. The liquor in his system already fizzing away the edges of the night, details burned like paper in a bonfire. But he could still see Paul’s eyes look at him like Chris had stabbed him through the heart.  _ He fucking deserves it.  _ Chris choked.  _ no. No. No!  _ Sinking deeper into his own little well of panic, it was all too much. Chris clawing at his hair and letting agonizing sobs jolt through him. He felt like a million eyes were watching, pressing his back to the wall of the bunk and covering his face with his hands. 

It took what felt like hours before his breathing was back at a normal pace, face still wet with tears. Though he didn’t move, he wanted so desperately to sleep, eyes shut. His entire body freezing up when he heard the curtain pulled aside, everything left in his used to keep his breathing steady, like he was asleep. The blankets pulled up to cover him as best they could without disturbing him. He could still feel a gaze on him even with his own hand still shielding his face. The blanket around him provided what felt like protection as the curtain was almost pulled all the way shut again. A voice whispering so quiet Chris could barely hear it above his own breaths. 

_ “I’m so sorry,”  _

The man’s footsteps leaving, the upstairs finally empty of everyone but him. Chris letting out a sound of deep-seated pain. He could already tell he was going to forgive the man.  _ He hated it.  _

The bus was quiet of any ruckus drunken laughter over cards or an idiotic joke. The stairs creaking far after Chris had fallen into a restless slumber. Shawn had been the first one to explore the upstairs and make sure their second percussionist had been breathing, daring to peer inside his bunk, only in the dark able to see the man’s curled up form pressed to the wall. Though the clown was satisfied that he wasn't dead. A few of the other men filled upstairs, some having finally returned to the bus. Escaping immediately to their bunks, some hesitating, though they were all dead quiet. They could all hear Chris’s raspy breaths, an assurance the man was indeed still alive, though asleep. Sid had almost dared to pull the curtain open on the man’s bunk before being dragged back and quietly scolded. The Dj huffing as he dove into his own bunk. Eventually, snoring started rumbling from quite a few bunks, one of the bunks still empty from its usual occupant. The men who hadn’t already escaped the bus earlier had been the bassist stalking out, he didn’t utter a word to any of them even when Shawn had called his name. Where he was going no one really knew, but not a single one wanted to chase after him. Jim had flinched away when the man passed him to exit the bus, Mick’s arm around his shoulders. The very air of the bus seemed thickened, foggy, even as the men slept. A small strain of neglected blood dried on the floor.

The rumble of the bus had woken him. Everything felt sluggish, eyelids heavy, like his head was filled with muddy molasses. Everything hurt, his head down to the tips of his finger and toes was sore, trying to breathe and feeling the distinctive rasp in his throat. A foul taste in his mouth. Hangover coating his mind in a thick grease, body sickeningly warm in the blankets. His wrists hurt but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why, the memory having faded with the uproar of his hangover. He shifted again, and felt something tucked under his arm, just outside of the blankets tangled around his torso. A plastic water bottle tucked beside him, along with a small paper bag, it looked like something from a gas station bakery. His chest twinged. Trying to weakly grab at the water, his throat suddenly extremely dry, barely managing to twist off the lid and turning his head at an angle to drink the water and not choke. Getting some down his throat before the jolting of the bus almost made him wrench it back up, screwing the lid on and setting the water bottle back down beside him. Eyes blinking closed again, too tired to see what was in the paper bag. Letting out a quiet exhale and curling back in the blankets, head still throbbing with pain. Let sleep swallow him back up. 

_ “Hey,”  _ Chris could feel sloggy consciousness bubble up, making his face twitch. His head less painful now as he squinted. The curtains of his bunk slid open a bit, Craig staring in at him, eyebrows knit together. The sampler looked worried as Chris whimpered,  _ “You think you can sing tonight?”  _ Chris blinked like the man was asking him to tie down a bull with a shoelace, blue eyes wide and confused. The lines on the samplers forehead only getting deeper, the man nodding.  _ “It’s okay,”  _ The sampler hand darting up, maybe originally going to pat Chris’s shoulder but stopping when he saw the look in other man’s eyes; instead dropping his hand to lightly pat the blankets covering the percussionist's forearm. Pulling away quickly, though his eyes darted to the bruises curling up Chris’s just barely exposed wrist. Not commenting as he muttered something about Chris going back to sleep, shutting the curtain. 

The percussionist could hear the man trug away from his bunk and back downstairs, where there was the dull hum of voices though after a while Chris could no longer hear anything. The bus dead quiet, and unless someone was intentionally hiding, Chris was confident he was alone when he finally willed himself to climb out from under his blankets. The water bottle rolling off his bed and dropping onto the floor with a dull thud. The paper bag crinkled under his hand what seemed like obnoxiously loud as Chris managed to sling his legs out from the bunk. The wave of nausea hitting him in the face and making him sway, bent over with his legs limply hanging out of his bunk. Chris’s belt digging into the back of his thighs, the percussionist’s face going a flushed pink color, trying to tug the pants up while he was still sitting. Then flinching at the soreness in his lower body. Instead of trying in vain to get his pants and underwear back on properly he simply squirmed out of the clothes and tossed them at the end of his bed.  _ Hell, _ he shifted again the pain increased until Chris debated simply laying back down. But his blatter protested. Chris forced himself to lower a leg to the cold floor, his body shivering at the icey as he flattened his foot against the floor. The drafty air of the bus tickling his legs as he lowered the other foot. Clutching a hand to the bed to help support himself while putting more and more weight onto his legs; which almost gave out until Chris steadied himself. 

Almost falling flat on his face when he took the first step, grabbing onto the edge of the bunk to support himself, a mewling sound from his scratchy throat as his feet steadied. Holding on as tight as could to the bunks as he stumbled slowly further down the bus, opposite the stairs. Willing his still trembling hands to pry open the door to the cramped bathroom, Chris silently thanked whoever designed the bus with the bathroom on the second floor so he didn’t have to climb down the stairs. The bathroom was barely big enough to turn around in. Chris clutching a hand on the edge of the small sink; Intentionally keeping his eyes away from the mirror above it. Only having a brief thought of it being there at all, what his face would look like.  _ The physical evidence of what happened even as his brain was slowly but steadily degrading his memories of the previous night into a dull gray plain of nothing but the background buzz of pain and regret.  _

Finishing his business at the toilet, daring to let go of the edge of the sink to wash his hands, his head tilted forward, unable to raise his eyes. Soapy water running over his fingers, Chris stumbling again as he turned off the sink, wiping his hand on his shirt, which was hanging down to about mid-thigh. Chris’s cheeks reddening when he finally took a good look at the bruises encircling his wrists. They were a deep shade of red, purple curling down the underside of his wrists, the tensions sore and aching when Chris moved a finger. Chris’s eyes drifting, titles pressed to his back, a voice whispering in his ear, wrists bond.  _ Such a pretty angel.  _ The percussionist let out a sound from the back of his throat, blinking away tears that had started to well in his eyes, sniffing and forcing himself to look up. Hands going back to clutch at the sink, the muscles in Chris’s forearms tensing at his hands clenched so hard they went white-knuckled. Chris willing himself to stay upright and stare into the mirror. 

Red ringed eyes, hair a mess around his face. A rosey bruise bloomed over his cheekbone, dried blood edging the corner of his mouth. Chris held his breath as he raised a hand to scratch a finger over the edge of his lips, blood flaking off like crimson snow. The percussionist tilting his head up, admiring the deep splotches of color that danced across his throat, crawling up his windpipe. His stomach churned, lowering a hand to touch the sensitive skin of his throat; gasping as his fingers pressed to the marks. It really shouldn’t have twisted in his guts like that. Chris blinking at the mirror;  _ it wasn't that bad.  _ Tucking some of his hair behind his ear and turning his head slightly to study his cheekbone, which throbbed. A blush rising on his face, only adding to the redness already present.  _ Yeah, It wasn't that bad.  _

_ At least you don't have to try and slit your wrists to get his attention this time.  _ Chris flinched, looking away from the mirror and back at the floor. His lower lip trembling, sniffing.  _ “Fuck off,”  _

_ ‘S not my fault you’re a needy masochistic bitch.  _ Chris backed away from the mirror and pressed his back to the bathroom wall, hand knotted in the hem of his shirt. 

_ Bet he won’t even need to say sorry this time! Hell, you barely remember what happened.  _ His legs were going to give out, reaching out a hand for the bathroom door. Twisting the handle.  _ Couldn’a enjoyed it. _

_ They all heard you, sure they can tell you what happened.  _ Chris twisted the door handle, nearly falling down when he rushed out of the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He hadn’t noticed he was holding his breath until his brain finally kicked in and forced him to actually suck in a lung full of air again. Taking a moment before stumbling back to his bunk, barely making it before collapsing into it; almost hitting his head. Searching around for the blankets and tugging them up over himself, burying his face in the pillow and willing himself not to cry. 

_ Just another day in fucking paradise.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Slaps Chris] This bad Boy can fit so much fucking Trauma in it


	5. Sacrilege

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ending bby, fuck i luv all of you sick fuckers
> 
> get ur lube and tissues, this a long one

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u too Mags for helping me, even if she doesn't think American cheese is real

_His teeth were falling out._ Coughing hard enough to dislodge a few more, which fell to the floor, coated in a thick sheen of bloody saliva. Chris scrambling back, head spinning with nausea, something clawing at the interior of his throat. His whole body spanning, hand ripping at his own neck as something wormed its way up from his stomach, finally erupting from his mouth with a rush of crimson. The thing writhing on the floor, it sounded like it was laughing, the pain in Chris’s mouth and throat felt like he was being suffocated. 

Something was shaking him, repeating his name over and over again. Chris’s eyes shooting open, adrenaline coursing through his veins, jaw still aching as he tried to mouth out something to make the shaking stop. Luckily it did after a moment. 

“Oh thank _fucking_ christ!” Jim was staring down at him with fear on his face, which melted away into a worried expression as he let go of Chris’s shoulder. The percussionist’s chest heaving, covered in sweat, eyes darting around. _“Sorry, You were having a nightmare, and I got, y’know--,”_ Chris still nodded, trembling as Jim leaned back out of his bunk. The tall guitarist crouched down so he could still actually see inside, looking at Chris. Who had sat up as best he could, almost hitting his head on the roof. Blue eyes still darting around, the man raising a hand to his mouth, grabbing one of his front teeth, making sure they were still in place before glancing at Jim. The tall man now looked a little more confused, but Chris just shook his head. _It’s fine._ Jim shifted nervously, one of his hands twitching. “You feel okay?” Chris tried to speak, his voice a whisper, gravelly, and horse. 

_“Yeah,”_ Jim nodded, his eyes not meeting Chris’s and instead tracing over the bruise coloring the man’s cheekbone, then down to the marks he could just barely see on the man’s throat. The guitarist sighed, more worry building up in his eyes. 

“Yeah,” The guitarist repeated when Chris had said back to him, muttering it under his breath. His eyes darted to spy the paper bag that was still on the mattress, shoved near the edge. The guitarist grabbed it, realizing the cheap cookie he’d grabbed from the gas station was still in there. Shoving the thing in his pocket for later. “You hungry?” Chris couldn’t verbally respond, instead just nodding, his own hand absentmindedly fiddling with the edge of the blanket still tucked around him from the waist down. The percussionist's cheeks going a bit red when he remembered that he most definitely wasn't wearing any pants. Pulling the blanket up further, and managing to choke out a plea. 

_“Peaches,”_ The guitarist's attention snapped to him, _“D'ya think you could grab me a pair of sweats,”_ The guitarist nodded, gripping the edge of the bed to help him stand back up. Trudging over to the extra bunk that was stuffed with an assortment of duffle bags. Retrieving Chris’s which he tugged out from the others, he knew it was the percussionist based on the faded company logo on the side of it, the man had stolen it from his electrician's job before quitting. Jim quickly searched through the bag for a pair of sweatpants before zipping it closed and returning to the bunk; setting the clothes down on the mattress next to Chris. The percussionist’s eyes went a bit wide, reaching out a hand to grab at the faded blue sweatshirt, eyes flicking up to meet Jim’s. He had a small nervous smile on his face, which Chris mirrored, smiling as best he could and muttering out a thanks. The guitarist stepped away from the bunk so Chris could get out, the percussionist managing to swing his legs out like he’d done before, though this time he kept the blankets around his waist. It still hurt like hell to move his lower body, the headache he’d had before pooling at the base of his skull. 

Sitting on the edge of the bunk, having to bend over as if not his skull, Chris managed to worm his blue sweatshirt on. Getting a bit of help from Jim to pull it down over his head, the guitarist letting out a quiet chuckle as he helped the percussionist find the neck hole. Chris, though he could still barely speak, glared jokingly at the guitarist, a small smile tugging on the corner of his lip. The pain in Chris’s lower body welling up again when he shifted forward, grabbing the sweatpants. Jim stepped back, jokingly covering his eyes even if he’d seen an eyeful before, 

“I’ll step out for a sec, let me know if ya’ need anythin’,” Chris made a noise of acknowledgment as the guitarist stepped towards the stairway of the bus. The percussionist watching him go, a bit of relief in his chest, at least he didn’t have to ask for privacy. A small sound coming from his throat as pain spiked from his head again, raising his free hand to clutch at his forehead, taking measured breaths until the pain ebbed away. Chris sighed, pulling the blanket off his waist, flinching when he saw the bruises curling up from his inner thighs. Suddenly extremely glad Jim had left for a moment. 

A curious finger gently prodded at the bruised skin, dull pain followed. Using a few fingers to stretch the fat of his inner thigh up to expose more of it, the bruises only got splotches and deeper in color towards what he could see of the back of his legs. Not to mention the hand made bruises on his hips bones, the deep-colored marks where fingers had dug into his skin. Chris shivering. He could already tell he’d been fucked, that much had been evident. _But it still hurt._ Chris tried to lean down again using both his hand put on the sweatpants. Managing to loop them around his ankles and pull them up to just past his knees before he stopped. Rolling onto his side back onto the bed and arching his body up as best he could to finally pull the sweatpants over his quite sore ass and up to his waist. Chris letting out a long exhale, his body dropping back to the bed with a grunt. _You could have asked for help._ The percussionist's nose wrinkled, the thought was unpleasant, he’d already stressed Jim out enough. No matter how sore and bruised up he was he’d already burdened the man with his problems. The guitarist didn’t need more reasons to worry about him. _It’s fine._

Voices rose from the stairwell, Chris snapping his head to hear the commotion. The very distinct ring of Corey’s voice echoing up the stairwell, it sounded like the man was arguing with Jim, whose voice, unfortunately, paled in comparison to the boisterous singer. 

_“Corey, Cor-- No! Wait a sec you fucker!”_ Chris could hear someone running up the stairs. Corey bursting out from the stairwell and marching down the aisle. Another commotion of Jim followed, the longer-legged man looking relieved that Chris was in his bunk at least. Corey marched right past Chris without giving the man a second glance. The singer had a hell-of-a bruise to march Chris’s on the side of his face. The blonde man not even trying to hide it, more like flaunt it if nothing else. Chris watched from inside his bunk, daring to stick his head out to first glance at Jim who looked annoyed, and then back at the singer who was climbing up to rummage around in the bunk holding all their bags. Making a triumphant noise when he reemerged with his trademark jack skellington hat, pulling it over his head before spinning back to look at the other two men. 

_“Jeeeeesssuusss,”_ The singer whistled and padded closer to Chris, whose eyes went wide. “Looks like we’re matching,” Snickering loudly as he studied Chris's face. Blue eyes flitted away from the percussionist and over to Jim who had crossed his arms; the taller man huffing. _“What?”_

“You’re a dick,” Corey snorted, grinning like Jim had just called him the best thing to crawl its way outta heaven. 

“Thanks, sweetcheeks,” Jim’s nose got a little red. Chris staring at the guitarist too, not noticing when Corey quickly approached, playfully smacked him on the shoulder, the percussionist jolting. “Sorry about last night, princess, I’ve been told I did things to earn this sucker,” Corey snickered, gesturing to his bruised face, and grinned at Chris, who was still partly in shock; only managing to nod. Jim looked about ready to kill the singer as the man slipped past him and skipped down the stairs. Jim yelling after him. 

_“Was your hat that important, dick?!”_ The both of them heard a muffled _‘yes!’_ from downstairs which made Jim huff as he turned back to Chris. “I’m sorry, dude, I tried to stop him,” Chris vaguely gestured with his hand, trying to tell the man it was fine. His mind still trying to sort out the previous night, _specifically what Corey had done to earn that bruise. Fucking Christ._ Jim was shifting from side to side, staring at the floor. “Still hungry?” Chris was shaken out of his train of thought enough to respond, his stomach rumbling. Jim stepped forward and offered out a hand, which the percussionist grabbed. Swinging his legs out of the bunk again and stepping back onto the cold floor. Flinching, his legs almost giving out again, though at the moment they seemed stronger than the last time he’d tried to stand. Plus Jim was holding steady to his hand. Chris finally spilling off the bunk, teetering a little bit before fixing his balance, clutching onto Jim’s hand for dear life. The guitarist helping the other man slowly walk over to the area by the stairs, leading Chris to collapse on one of the couches. Which was significantly more comfortable than his bed, thick cushions, and worn fabric. Chris only let out a satisfied sound, slumping over on the couch, burying his face in one of the cushions. Jim chuckling, patting his shoulder, “Be back soon, I won't let Corey up to harass you again,” Chris let out an amused noise, smothered by the cushion. Trying to find a possession on the couch that wasn't entirely painful and Jim marched down the stairs. Eventually, the percussionist settled in, legs at a semi-awkward angle sprawled out on the couch. Suddenly feeling a bit drowsy. Though a bit of memories had sparked in his head, definitely reawoken by the brief visit from Corey. He knew something had happened, and based on the way Jim was treating him, like a broken fucking toy, it was probably something bad. _Probably._ Chris shuddered, nuzzling his head against the pillow. _It’s fine, It’s all fine._

He’d managed to doze off in the short time Jim had been downstairs. Only blinking awake again when Jim padded back up to the second floor of the bus, holding a paper plate and a plastic water bottle. The man smiling at him, moving to sit down on the couch. Chris grunting as he moved himself to a sitting position so he didn’t accidentally choke on the food. Jim set the plate in his lap, a handful of potato chips and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white bread; a staple of their long bus rides. Chris tried to roughly whisper out a thanks but the man held up his hand, smiling. The first bite of the sandwich was good, he’d had it about 500 times on the long trips but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t eaten anything in what felt like ages and the sticky peanut butter tasted better than a five-star restaurant dish at the moment. It also finally drowned out the horrible taste that had been marinating on his tongue, Chris almost had gotten used to the taste before it was smothered by the peanut butter. 

Scoffing down about half the sandwich despite how much his throat protested, Jim handing him the water bottle. Which Chris chugged, nearly choking on it before he finally slowed down. Jim snorted out a half warning to be careful when Chris went back to munching on his sandwich, luckily much slower this time. Actually chewing his bites of cheap bread and sticky peanut butter and clearance-isle jelly. The guitarist eventually handed the percussionist the cookie as well, Chris’s eye lighting up a bit as he took a bite out of the half-squished baked good. When he did finally finish the food, Jim lifted the plate off his lap, setting it on one of the small side tables to throw in the trash later. Turning back to Chris, who was taking small sips of the water. His throat was less parched for water, the percussionist’s eyebrows furrowing as he screwed back on the lip to the plastic bottle. 

_“Thanks, Peaches,”_ His voice certainly sounded less scratchy, though still quiet and rough around the edges. The guitarist nodded muttering _‘yeah, no problem’_ under his breath, studying Chris’s face, reaching out a hand to brush some of the hair that observed the man’s neck. Green eyes tracing over the marks up the man’s throat. Chris flinched away, he’d forgotten to pull his hood up, not that it would really hide his neck in full, but, it seemed like it would have helped. A soft exhale from the guitarist, Chris suddenly felt like all the food in his stomach was threatening to come back up. The guitarist's shoulders were shaking, the man’s mood had shifted, his eyes big and green and filled with sadness. Chris almost let out a squeaking sound when the man moved forward, wrapping his long arms around Chris and enveloping the man in a hug. Jim’s face buried into Chris’s shoulder. 

_“I’m so s-sorry, Chris, I fucking let you get hur-t again, ‘m so f-fuckin sorry,”_ Jim was clutching onto the percussionist, his hand knotted in the sweatshirt, his body shaking. Chris’s eyes had gone wide, his arms instinctually wrapping around him. 

_“It’s okay, ‘s okay, Peaches, Everything’s fine,”_ Chris’s voice was teetering on the edge of breaking, pulling the man closer, who was still trembling. 

_“ ‘s not though, please, I’m so sorry,”_ Chris was shaking too now, pain sparking up from his aching body. That sick feeling of familiarity coming back. _You're used to it. Used to the pain and the torment. It’s fine. Everything’s fine. Jim is just overreacting._

 _“It’s okay, I promise,”_ The guitarist choked against the fabric of his sweatshirt. 

_“It’s not!”_ Chris held the man tighter to him. Making shushing sounds. _It’s fine._ Jim pulled back from him, rubbing a hand across his eyes, taking deep breaths. The man looked like he was going to say something before the sound of a door slamming open from downstairs made both of them practically jump off the couch. Someone yelling loudly followed by a crashing sound. Jim’s back straightened, sniffing as he wiped his eyes. _“C’mon, c’mon,”_ The guitarist helped Chris stumble up from the couch. The percussionist almost fell over multiple times while Jim helped him stumble back from his bunk. Chris thankful for the man as he rolled onto the thin mattress. The blankets pulled over him, Jim darting out a hand to grab Chris’s shoulder, looking into the percussionist’s eyes. _“We’ll talk later, okay,”_ Chris’s nodded, _“I--,”_ Jim’s voice broke, tugging the percussionist back into a hug, _“I’m still so fucking sorry,”_ Chris could only make a sound in the back of his throat, trying to tall the man that it was fine as the guitarist pulled away. The green eyes still a bit watery as the taller man gave a halfhearted smile, tugging the curtain closer. Chris could hear his footsteps dart away, long legs taking him quickly down the stairs to deal with the chaos on the lower part of the bus. 

The percussionist pulled the blankets up further. The sweatshirt was already heating up his body, and the food stirring in his stomach was making him drowsy. Though his head was racing. Thoughts of Paul sparked by Jim were wriggling in his skull. He already knew he loved the bassist. _He really did. He loved him so much it made him want to puke up the food in his belly._ And now it felt worse, it felt sick to love the man. _It was maybe, probably, sick and horrible. Probably._ But Chris was already in too deep. Reaching a hand up to caress over the marks on his throat, they made something pinch in his chest. They _really_ shouldn’t have made heat that felt like thick honey gathered in his heart. But he couldn’t stop it. _It’s fine. It’s not too bad. You can’t remember it anyway so it doesn’t matter._ The percussionist let out a shaky breath. _It’s fine._ Repeating the mantra under his breath. Chris curled in on himself, tucking the blankets over him. Starkly ignoring the voices of the men downstairs. Sleep was better than being awake anyway. _Hopefully, his teeth wouldn’t fall out this time._

  
  


The band had continued the habit of all getting together on it to play cards and drink whenever they were too lazy to go out to bars after shows. Chris’s voice only took a few more nights to fully recover, much to Shawn's relief. The first few times after _what had happened_ brought an inordinate amount of tension whenever Chris and Paul were anywhere near each other. Jim had also become skittish around the bassist as well. Chris being forced to spend less and less time with Jim. Much to the guitarist's distress, only brief moments where they were able to talk. The percussionist had almost tried to avoid everyone, even the guitarist as much as it pained him. Every time he was with the man it felt like Paul was watching him, dark eyes clawing into his back. Though he was pretty sure Jim understood, the tall man sending him glances of worry and understanding whenever he caught Chris’s eye. Most of the time Chris retreating to sleep in a bunk rather than stay and play cards or drink. Even electing to rather sleep in the bus than in the hotel they rented, which Shawn would have bitched at him for if not for the fact the older man still had something like sympathy in his heart. Which may have been the reason Shawn had pulled him aside after a show. The percussionist stumbled on his feet when Shawn grabbed the fabric of his jumpsuit and wrench him back. Chris making a displeased sound and trying to shove the older man off. 

_“W-What, you old fuck?”_ Shawn snorted, his mask obscuring much of his face, never failing to bring an air of something unnatural whenever he spoke or laughed with the thing on. 

_“Relax,_ tonight’s a hotel night, you and pig are gonna to share one,” Chris opening his mouth like a fish out of water before Shawn cut him off again, “No, you can’t sleep on the bus,” Anxiety started to build up in Chris’s gut, eyes dropping to the floor. Shawn’s hand coming to land on his shoulder in a much too hard pat of reassurance. “You’ll have to iron things out eventually, Dicknose, _just wanted to give you a head’s up,”_ Well, at least Shawn did want him dead yet. Probably. The older man slapping Chris’s shoulder again as he continued on his way to one of the green rooms. The feeling of tiredness that was indefinite after a show like their’s crashing over Chris with more of a heavy quality than normal. Shoulder slumping, a heavy sigh from his lips. _Fuck._

“Dude-- _can just switch with me it’ll be fine!”_

 _“Nah-h,_ I ha-”

“Chris. . .”

_“You said I had to talk to him anyway and--,”_

_“Chris!_ After what happened on the bus? _Really?”_

 _“It’ll be fine, Jim!”_ The guitarist buried his face in his hands, groaning. He and Chris standing in the back of the green room having a whispered argument as the rest of the band stripped themselves of their makeup and jumpsuits. Sid laying naked on one of the tables and groaning endlessly about his legs or his arms or his head or whatever was hurting at that particular moment. Joey tossing a dirty towel over the Dj, which only muffled the man's complaints. The drummer finally yelling at the Dj to shut up, Sid cackling from under the towel. 

Jim sighed loudly again, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

_“Chris. . .”_ The percussionist pulling a shirt over his head before looking up at Jim, who at this point just looked blatantly concerned. “I just, _worried,_ y’know?” Chris's mouth went into a tight-lipped smile, trying to appear much more confident than he really was about the whole thing. Worry gnawing at his gut.

“Yeah, _I know,”_

Jim had tried to quietly convince Chris all the way out to the busses to switch rooms. Stay with Craig or Mick, while Jim could room with Paul. The guitarist finally gave up when Chris simply stopped responding to him, pleas falling on deaf ears. They had been instructed to gather up all their things from the busses, for some godforsaken reason, who knows. And Chris didn’t pay enough attention to find out anyway as he stuffed all of his clothes and nicknacks in his bag. Dragging out his other duffle bag which 90% of the time was shoved in the deep recesses under the bus and hauling it over his shoulder. At least he didn’t have as much stuff as Joey or Sid, the two seemed to have a compilation of who could have the most bags filled with useless items. And in Sid’s case things he’d stolen off people because they were shiny. Chris distracting himself with the memory of a time the Dj had stolen a certain glimmering pin from some roadie and gotten chased up a flagpole, _not an exaggeration_ as they’d all come to find out when the found him desperately clinging onto the pole for dear life; a man screaming at him from the ground while holding a scrap microphone stand. The shiny pin was giving back with little fuss after Sid had finally come to his senses. 

Someone slapped Chris on the shoulder, speak of the devil himself, Sid was standing next to him making a face that was twisting his features and making him look much more like a rat than usual. An exhausted snort coming from Chris as he cocked an eyebrow; to try to deal with the hyperactive man at the moment. 

_“What?”_ The Dj’s face morphing into a barely held back sneer as he studied Chris. Then shrugged, metal teeth glinting as he scampered away snickering to himself. Another tried sound escaping Chris as he muttered _‘motherfucker’_ under his breath and readjusted the bags he was carrying as they were digging into his shoulder and hand. Glancing around to see Jim waving at him, summoning him over to a parade of vans that had just pulled up to take them to the hotel, or where they were headed too. Hiking the bag on his shoulder up again as he started the trek toward the vans, dumping his stuff in the back of one of them and haphazardly climbing in. Crawling into the back and curling up to a window. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Jim cast him another worried glance, but didn’t try to climb in and sit next to the percussionist. Who had leaned his head up against the glass of the window like he almost always did, and was staring out of it hazy eyed. 

Eventually, the vans coughed to life once someone had actually found Craig. The man had apparently been casually beating every single roadie that dared challenge him the game of poker. They need only follow the sounds of annoyed screaming to find him sitting with a grin on his face and a deck of cards in his hands while the roadies sitting on the ground with him were clutching their heads and complaining that he had cheated. Craig grinning as he was led back to vans, a new stack of bills stuffed in the sampler’s pocket. The silent man happily hummed as he took up the seat next to Chris, though it didn’t bother the percussionist. Who was still inside his own head as the vans started moving.

His hands were shaking. Nearly dropping the bags as he dragged them out of the back of the van, slinging one over his shoulder and holding the straps of the other in a fist. A cold feeling starting to creep up The percussionist’s spine, the trembling in his hands getting worse. Chris clenched his hand into a fist in order to try to stop the incessant tremors as he mindlessly followed Craig to the side entrance of the hotel. The building as forgettable as almost any of the other temporary residences they’d stayed in. One the edge of a bigger city, one with an airport as Chris heard Sid excitedly screaming about. The Dj had a love for airplanes for God knows what reason.

Someone yelling about going to bars as Chris filed into the backdoor of the hotel. A hotel key shoved into his still slightly shaky hand, a room number only vaguely sticking in his memory as he padded through the hallway to find the correct room. The sound of a metallic click as Chris unlocked and pushed open the hotel room door. The percussionist’s breath still barely perceptible as he tossed his bag down on one of the beds, the one furthest from the door. Maybe a poor decision if he wanted to escape, but he didn’t care. Glancing at the door as he prepared for bed. He didn’t want to drink tonight, nor smoke with Sid. And not do anything but fall asleep and get anytime he had to spend alone with Paul over as quickly as possible if the man was drunk. Chris slipped out of the T-shirt and pants, left in a loose pair of boxers. Though he flinched as he looked down at himself, shame curling in his chest. The percussionist grabbing his hoodie with trembling hands and pulling the thing on. Looking at the door again as if it was going to burst open, _it very well could,_ as he pulled back the blankets on the bed, checking the edges for bed bugs. Luckily for him, none seemed to be present. Chris switching the lamps off in the room and pulling shut the moth-eaten curtains. Climbing into the bed. Curling up facing away from the door. 

He wanted to fall asleep immediately like someone had clobbered him with a brick, but the land of knod was escaping him at the moment. Mind swirling with thoughts of Paul. He’d not spoken to the man since the incident on the bus. Not _really_ spoken to him at least, outside of what was necessary when in a band like slipknot where occasionally you had to scream at someone to get out of the way of a flaming baseball bat. Chris burying his face in a pillow and making a sound of distress. He was going to try to talk to Paul if the man woke him. _He would._ Yeah. Just as clown and Jim and the sane parts of his subconscious were telling him to do. If the bassist shook him awake, Chris would try to talk to him. Yeah, _perfect_ . . . Chris nearly laughed at himself, he sounded like a nervous teenager. The laugh slowly developed into the choking sound of sobs. Smothering his face in the pillow. _Fuck Shit Bitch Ass Motherfucking fuck._ And all the other crude curse words muttered under his breath into the distinct hotel fabric texture of the pillow. The feeling of the universe coming to rest on his shoulders, only prompting him to curl further in on himself and squeeze his eyes shut. His mind, body, and soul were being slow and painfully ripped out. Gutted like a fish. Cattle to the slaughter. Like Issac’s son taken up to the mountain, because now was the time for the biblical references. Unfortunately, no angels were coming to save him. The man falling into a dreamless and restless sleep, brain still ticking, not unlike a timebomb inside his skull. Who's to say what’ll happen when the fuse runs short. 

Two men had met in the hallway. The taller of the two looked skittish, nervous as he approached. They only shared a brief interaction. The taller one practically breaking down, voice cracking before he backed away, escaping back to his own room. The other one left standing shocked, almost dropping his keys, pain in his chest. 

The door was opened with surprising care, barely making a sound on its hinges. The soft sound of footsteps moving across the carpet, the bathroom light flicked on as the only light source barley in the room. The sound of bags being gently set down and someone taking off their shoes. Chris not even stirring in his sleep while the other person in the room watched him and sighed heavily. Moving over to the sleeping percussionist’s bed, sitting lightly on the edge of the mattress. Waiting to see if Chris would wake. The percussionist's face was lax, the bruise on his cheekbone faded, hair loose around his head and splayed out over the pillow, body still half curled up in the blankets of the bed. A soft hand moving to brush against some of the brunette hair, then against Chris’s warm cheek. The percussionist’s eye twitching in his sleep at the affectionate touch, tensing up. Though as the soft touches continued, finger brushing over the skin of his cheek and hair, Chris relaxed again. His subconscious brain craving any hint of affection and hungrily eating it up. 

The touches only continuing. Retracing their steps over the skin until they were as familiar as the pillow under Chris's head. Then a flurry of movement knocked everything out of rhythm, nearly startling Chris fully awake. A knock on the door, not loud necessarily, but anything above a whisper in the room seemed like a gunshot. The man quickly getting up from the percussionist’s bed and rushed to the door. Yanking it open with a scowl on his face, making a shushing gesture with his hand. Glaring at Mick who stood outside the door, rolling his eyes. 

_“There’s been a scheduling issue, we’ll be stuck here to about two days,”_ Mick had at least made an effort to quiet his voice. The guitarist’s shrugging as the other man cocked an eyebrow. “Shawn didn’t have a real chance to explain, ask him in the morning,” The big guitarist yawned, cracking his neck in the same breath as he turned, waving a lazy goodnight as he stalked down the hallway. 

Paul let out a sigh, closing the door with a click. Shoulders slumping, fingers running through his hair. The bassist raising a hand to nervously scratch at one of his arms, the veins there itching for something. The man tensing back up when he heard a soft sound, turning his head sharply. Chris was sitting up in his bed, blankets tangled around his legs, back pressed flat to the headboard and eyes wide like an abused kitten. It caused a pang to rip through Paul’s chest. He really wished the man hadn’t woken up, _he really did._ Far too sober to deal with what he’d done, nor the look of fear swirling in the percussionist eyes that hurt some sniveling small thing inside than that clawed at his insides and made him want to vomit. The man was still bundled in his sweatshirt, which only made him look smaller, _weaker._ Paul could see some bruises discoloring the man’s thigh wear his boxers had ridden up, another wave of nausea washing over him. The bassist stumbling back towards the door, feet unsteady. 

_“I’ll go,”_ The man’s voice barely above a whisper, his hand desperately searching for the door handle. Chris’s eyes only got wider, like he was surprised at Paul’s behavior, his mouth opening a bit. 

_“N-no,”_ Paul tensed, _“Don’t,”_ Chris still looked scared, voice shaky, but Paul’s hand dropped from its hold on the door handle. Muscles too stiff to move. He could see Chris’s eyes fall shut as the man took a deep breath, the percussionist’s whole body strung tight. _“C’mon,”_ A trembling hand half covered by a sweatshirt sleeve patting the bed next to him. “We have-- _we have to tal-k,”_ Something in Paul’s chest cracked at Chris’s words. His body moving on it’s own and taking a step towards Chris. The percussionist sniffed, patting the bed again, tears threateningly to spill from his eyes as Paul slowly got closer; dark eyes fixed on the floor as he stood near the foot of the bed. _“Si-sit please,”_ Paul couldn’t look at Chris, sitting tentatively at the foot of the bed, feeling like someone had ripped out his gut. A thick silence blanketing them as neither of the men spoke, refusing to meet each other's gazes. 

_“You hate me, don’t you?”_ Chris inhaled sharply, face twisting into confusion and worry. _“Look at what I’ve fuckin’ done to you,”_ Paul’s tone flat, mock unfeeling that almost hurt more than if the man had just yelled. _It hurt._ Chris tried to stutter out a rebuttal, but Paul ignored him. _“Fuck. What have I done to you, Chris?”_ The dark eyes daring to scathe up the percussionist leg, tracing gazes around the bruises that were blooming under the typically pale skin. Paul sucked in an uneven breath. _“I'm so sorry,”_ Chris was still in shock, still holding his breath. _“I hit you. I cut you. I--”_ Paul’s voice gave out as his eyes traced over the edge of scars peeking out on Chris’s left hip, the percussionist sweatshirt had ridden up a bit. The damaged flesh partly obscured under the elastic waistband of Chris’s boxers, though he didn’t need to see the full things to know they were there. The letters fading but still legible carved into the flesh. The sick part of his psyche acting up, a rush up his spine that made his gust twist. _He hated it._

 _“I don’t hate y-you,”_ The trembling voice was barely above a whisper. Paul flinched. 

_“Yes,_ you do,” 

_“I don’t,”_

_“You should,”_ He could only hear an exasperated sound from Chris, _“You should fucking despise me, Ch-”_ His head was jerked to the side, pain spiraling out from his cheek. It wasn't the hardest he’d been slapped, nowhere close. But it surprised him. Then he felt hands clutch either side of his face, turning him back, Chris’s lips colliding with his. The percussionist kissed him hard, teeth knocking against his own before the man pulled away; still holding Paul’s face. Chris was now kneeling beside Paul on the bed, face streaked with tears, hands unsteady as they held the bassist’s face. 

_“B-but I don’t,”_ Paul couldn’t speak, it felt like there was something choking up his throat. Chris was crying because of him, _again._ His body itching to run away from the percussionist. 

_“Why?” God, it fucking hurt to say that._ Paul barely recognized his own voice, gagged with uncried tears. The blue eyes he was trying desperately to rip his gaze away from clouded over for a second. Chris’s eyebrows twitching into a faint look of confusion. 

“I d-don’t-- _I don’t know,”_

_“That’s why y--”_

_“I don’t fucking know why I love you, okay? I just do. I just fuckin’ do,”_

_“But--”_

_“I love you, Paul, okay?”_ The bassist sniffed. Mind racing.

_Really? After all you’ve fuckin’ done to him. He loves you? Wow. I’m impressed. I mean, did you hypnotize him or something? After you made him bleed, and cry and vomit, he still loves you? Either that or he’s a liar. Maybe he’s afraid of you. Scratch that. I know he’s afraid of you. You’ve seen the look in his eyes, he fuckin’ fears you. Hates you just like the rest of them did. Remember that first night? How many times did he say no, Pig? How many times has he tried to get away from you? You got him a few times. Hell, he’s said he loved you before. And all you’ve given him in return is pain and blood. Some fuckin’ friend you are. Or are you his boyf-_

_“Paul?”_ The dark eyes refocused on Chris’s worried face. The drying tears on the percussionist's cheeks shone in the low light of the room. Only the bathroom light casting weakly across the carpet, illuminating the despair in Chris’s blue eyes as Paul tried desperately to stop the numb feeling that was threatening to crawl up his spine and swallow him whole. It had been biding its time since he’d stepped into the room when he’d seen Chris again when he’d gotten close enough to touch the sleeping man. Emotions bubbling over when the man had woken. _“Paulie, please,”_ The bassist flinched, his chest tightening. Chris’s thumbs were running over Paul’s cheekbones, the percussionist’s lips quivering as quietly repeated the bassist’s name under his breath like a mantra. 

Until he felt something sliding down the skin of his face, he really hadn’t noticed he’d started to cry. The tears catching in his throat and smearing under Chris’s thumbs. Paul didn’t remember the last time he’d cried, at least not in front of anybody else. And now Chris was muttering things under his breath that Paul couldn’t make out. The percussionist's voice finally cracked and broke as he started to cry as well. Paul still couldn’t get his body to move, only managing to weakly move his arm to rest his hand right next to Chris’s thigh. Before, he would have dared to touch the percussionist but not now. Not when he could still see the bruises left by his hands and fingers staining the man’s skin. Now the tears down his face couldn’t stop, blurring his vision and only choking up his throat more. 

_“F-fuck,”_ He was sat dead sober and crying. Open and exposed like a corpse during an autopsy for anyone to poke and prod around in his guts. And at the moment that person was Chris, whose hand had released his face, the man leaning forward to wrap his arms as best he could around Paul, dragging the bassist towards him just a bit. The percussionist’s face buried Paul's shoulder, tears staining the man’s shirt. Chris’s hands bunching in the shirt, frantically trying to keep the other man close. The dark eyes of the bassist were unfocused and staring at the wall, where Chris’s face had been before. His own arm, not pinned against Chris, weakly moved to tentatively hug around the brunette. Fear brewing that Chris would pull away at even the smallest of his touches. 

But the percussionist didn’t. Only sinking as best he could into Paul’s hold. Chris’s breath hot against his skin, supple lips half-pressed to his neck due to the angle. His own tears dripping into the mop of brunette hair tickling his skin as the other man shifted closer. Gagged up and choked out words mumbled to quiet for either of them to hear. 

Chris was the first to pull away, his arms loosening around Paul as he leaned back. Sniffing and whipping an eye with the back of his hand. Paul watching him, the tears drying on his cheeks, stomach still in knots, his heart about one sentence away from shattering into a million pieces. If Chris had told him to go and never come back he would have done so, without a second thought. Fuck, if he hadn’t caused the man enough pain to last five lifetimes. Paid in tears.

 _“Please stay,”_ A hand was back caressing the side of his face, Paul jolted back to reality by Chris’s soft words. _“Please. . . ?”_ The bassist could only nod, Chris, letting out a relieved breath of air as his hand fell from the man’s face down to rest on Paul’s chest. Right dead over the bassist's heart, which was nearly beating out of his ribcage. Paul’s own hand had instinctually traced down over the fabric of Chris’s sweatshirt to the man’s hip, only the pinkie finger of the hand brushing against the percussionist bare skin, near the edge of a reddish-purple bruise. Another pang in Paul’s chest, his heart skipping a beat. Chris caught his attention again, the percussionist was tugging at his shirt. The man pushed some of the blankets out of the way so they could lay down. Paul averted his eyes when Chris pulled off the light blue hoodie like he wasn't even supposed to see the man anymore let alone touch him. Another tug to his shirt made his shift forward, looking up at Chris. The man’s face still stained with tears, his mouth trying to twitch into a small smile. It didn’t reach his eyes, _not really. “C’mon,”_

The bassist’s mind blank as his body moved to crawl up next to Chris, who had cuddled himself under the blankets. Nothing that was happening felt real as the blankets were pulled over the both of them. Paul laying like the bed was made from nails and glass, not resisting when Chris’s arm looped around his waist and dragged him closer, Paul’s arm forced to drape over Chris, his hand trying not to touch the percussionist’s skin too much. The other man’s face tucked just under Paul’s chin; breaths fanning out over the bassist's throat in small huffs. 

_“I’m sorry, Chris,”_ The percussionist trembled, his breath hitching, _“ ‘m so sorry for getting jealous, for all the shit I’ve done. The fuck is wrong with me. . . ? I’m so sorry, angel, Fuck, if I would take it all back if I could, ‘m sorry,”_ Paul’s voice was rushed and barely above a whisper. _“Please, you don’t have to forgive me, just know that I’m sorry, ‘m so fuckin’ sorry, Christopher, ‘m--,”_ Emotion clogging his throat and cutting him off, the man in his arms trembled and clutched hands into his shirt. The air thick between them for a few moments. 

_“I really don’t h-hate you,”_ Paul’s throat tightened again, the arms that had been laid over Chris tensed, fingers brushing against one of the bumps of the man’s spine. The bassist only able to try and control his breathing as Chris continued muttering, voice unsteady and quiet, _“If I did, I wouldn’t be h-here,”_

 _“You said you did,”_ Paul regretted saying that as soon as he heard the choked sound Chris made, it sounded like it _hurt._ The man curling into Paul’s chest, trying to stop his body from trembling, a sob rising in his throat. 

_“I lov-e you,”_ The bassist was tempted to hold Chris closer as the man shook. _“Doesn’t matter what you did, love you, okay? I love you, I love y-ou, I--”_ The strain on the percussionist's voice almost made it sound like he was trying to convince himself. _“Please, say it too, please, plea-se. . .?”_

 _“I love you too,”_ In his head, Paul’s voice sounded hollow. He _did_ love Chris, he really did. His brain refusing to cooperate and let him enjoy it, _God knows he didn’t deserve to enjoy the percussionist._ Though the confession seemed enough for Chris, who made a sound like a wounded kitten and only pressed himself closer to the bassist. Paul couldn’t utter another word, finally giving in and hugging Chris to his chest. A tear rolling down his face and onto the pillow, he never wanted to hurt the man again. _Never._

The veins in his arm itched again, though he ignored it. _Not now._ His mind working as best it could in his teary-emotionally clogged up head, a slow idea of how to make up for all the pain he’d wrot on Chris forming in the back of his skull. _Maybe it was a bad idea._ Too any sane man it would be lunacy. Hypocritical in all scenes of the word, but what’s hypocrisy to a _madman?_

Chris could finally breathe again. A massive weight had been lifted off his chest as he calmed his breathing down, eyelids heavy. His shoulders relaxing, eye fluttering shut; His nose buried just above Paul’s collarbone in the hollow of the man’s throat. He could feel the man’s arms around him, _it felt nice._ Chris let out a shaky breath as the bassist's thumb traced small circles into the muscles of his back, he wasn't sure if the man was consciously doing it but it didn’t matter. The knot of anxiety that had been tight and painful in his gut for what felt like weeks had started to loosen and untangle itself. _Hell,_ they hadn’t said out loud everything but it felt like enough. The percussionist’s eyes twitched, brows furrowing; He’d never really thought he’d ever see Paul cry. The man looked like a _kid._ That was the only way Chris could describe it. Like a kid who was being scolded and berated and was dealing with concepts too old for him, not knowing any other way to deal with it than to cry. It tugged at his heartstrings. The man who’d hurt him so much, crying and staring at Chris like a wounded animal that only bit and scratched for fear of being hurt more. 

Chris had forgiven him. He knew it was a bad idea. But he couldn’t help it. _Love is a terrible thing._

  
  


There was a warmness on his chest. A pressure, moving with slow breaths. Chris blinked, neck slightly stiff as he turned his head. He was laying flat on his back, clearly having shifted during the night, head once tilted to one side on the pillow that was propping him up, the fabric stained with a small bit of drool. A small grunt from the percussionist's throat as he looked down at what was currently making it a bit harder than normal to breathe, his gaze still cloudy from sleep. Blue eyes blinking and finally focusing. Paul’s head was resting on Chris’s stomach, the bassist's arms wrapped around the percussionist's waist, cheek pressing to Chris’s bare skin; breaths slow and warm. A blush was rising on the brunette’s face, his own breath catching in his throat. He could feel Paul’s arms tighten around his waist, the man’s face nuzzling into Chris’s belly. The percussionist’s eyes going wide, exhaling a shaky breath. 

He really should have felt cold, all the blankets had been pulled off him and pooled around his legs, where Paul was lying between them; softly snoring. The percussionist’s hand unconsciously drifted to pet at the man’s dark hair. The small curls of silky between his fingers. The percussionist staring as his hand continued to gently pet the man’s head. His body relaxed as both of his hands moved to play with the bassist's dark locks, breathing eventually resuming a normal pattern despite the weight partially on his abdomen. He hadn’t realized how long he’d been petting at the hair until he felt the man shift, head tilting, and dark eyes blinking sleepily up at him. Chris got the blush back high on his cheekbones, his hands immediately moving away like he’d been doing something wrong. Paul squinted up at Chris and made an annoyed grunting sound in the back of his throat. That unpleasant feeling beginning to build deep in the percussionist’s gut. 

_“Why’d you stop?”_ Chris’s eyebrows shot up, a soft _‘uhhhh’_ sound rising from the back of his throat. Paul still blinking sleepily up at him, grunting as he let his head fall back to rest against Chris’s abdomen, nuzzling against the warm flesh while the bassist made another grunting noise. Chris’s letting his hand drop gently back to caress over the bassist's scalp, getting the man to sign into the skin of his belly. A tingle ran up Chris’s spine as the man settled back against him and let out a small humming sound as Chris continued to touch the man’s hair. 

They stayed like that for what was probably hours, judging by daylight starting to slowly creep in from behind the blinds. Each of them taking turns drifting in and out of small bouts of unconsciousness. Paul eventually dragged himself up more onto Chris, the percussionist making a small wheezing sound, which made the bassist chuckle. The man moved up far enough to peck Chris on the cheek before rolling off the brunette, laying next to him on the bed with one of those sugar-coated smiles on his face as he looked into the blue eyes. There was still pain behind the dark eyes, Chris could see that, but he couldn’t help but grin back. A spark in his chest. 

Their little moment was broken by the sound of a phone going off. Ringing incessantly somewhere inside Paul’s bag; which was placed on the other side of the room. The bassist groaned, sighing; his eyes screwing shut. Chris reached out to caress a hand down the side of the man’s face, moving to play with the earrings pierced through an ear, the silver hoops smooth between his fingers. 

_“Probably get that,”_ Paul snorted, cracking open an eye to look at Chris, who muttered sleepily “Could be Shawn or somethin’,” 

_“Why don’t you get it?”_ Chris let out a breathy giggle, face half-hidden by the pillow his head was resting on. Paul’s eyes getting a loving look in them as he gazed over Chris, lip piercing stretched in a small smile before the bassist grunted again. rolling over to the edge of the bed and swinging his legs over to stand. Trudging over to his bag, where the phone was still going off, digging through the beg to grab the thing. Paul flipped it open once he retrieved it, bringing it up to his ear in order to listen to whoever had called him about _hopefully_ something urgent. 

Chris watched curiously as Paul raised a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose, the man’s face twisting into an expression of tired annoyance. Some garbled mess of something Chris couldn’t make out emanating from the phone speaker as Paul growled, flipping the phone shut and rubbing a hand over his face while sighing. The bassist glancing back to see Chris giving him a confused look. Paul managed to summon a smile as he threw the phone back onto his bag. 

“Was jus’ Sid,” Paul sighed, running fingers through his hair. Chris cocking an eyebrow, “He was jus’ giggling and, _yeah,”_ Paul biting back the last part of that, _“The asshole,”_ That got a little bit of a smile out of Chris, the percussionist snuggling into the blankets. His voice muffled by the fabric. 

_“When do we have to leave by?”_

“Oh, _uhhh,”_ Paul shifted on his feet, “Might be stuck here for a few days,” He wasn't sure how the percussionist would react, watching as the man cracked an eye open to look at him. The percussionist sighed, curling himself under the blankets. 

_“Thank fuck,”_ The corner of Paul’s mouth twitching up into a half-smile, muttering a reply under his breath that sounded something like _‘yeah,’._ Padding back over to the bed to sit next to Chris’s form under the blankets, running a hand along the hair that was escaping out of the percussionist improvised cocoon. Paul eyeing the clock sitting on the small bedside table. It was still early, but knowing that the hand and some of the roadies were staying in the hotel it wouldn’t be a longshot to say whatever cheap but free buffet brunch-breakfast would be gone as quickly as it was set down. He’d seen some sign advertising it when he’d stumbled in last night, though the details escaped him. 

“You want to get breakfast?” A grunt from under the blankets, Paul cocking an eyebrow. “C’mon it’s free, we should at least grab somethin’,” Chris made a groaning sound, wriggling partly out from under the cover of the blankets and brushed away some of the hair that was sticking to his face. The man yawned as he sat up next to Paul in the bed, still only in his boxers. The bassist felt a twinge of regret in his chest when he saw the bruises shaped like his hands on the side of the man’s hip. Deep blemishes where fingers had dug into flesh. The dark eyes continued to be fixed on the damaged, only snapping away from it when Chris moved. The percussionist scouting forward and grabbing Paul’s chin with one of his hands, the bassist's eyes hazy as they looked up to the other man’s face. Chris’s eyebrows furrowing, to Paul, it sounded like the brunette was underwater. 

Lips connected with his. Bringing Paul back to the surface, Chris petting the side of his face with a thumb as their mouths pressed together. Just a quick affectionate display before Chris pulled back, Paul blinking at him. The percussionist’s nose getting a little red, his mouth in a sheepish smile, looking down and not meeting Paul’s gaze. The bassist grabbed the man’s hand that had drifted down from his face back onto the bed, trying to take a steady breath as he gave the hand a gentle squeeze. Paul barely noticed he’d been muttering under his breath until he tried to make his vocal cord corporate and choke out another _‘C’mon,’._ Seeing Chris nod, and start to climb off the bed, Paul finally letting go of the man’s hand. Trying to distract himself from watching the way Chris’s bones and muscles worked under his skin, the way his hair settled around his shoulders, tendons stretching as he reached down to dig through his own bag for something decently clean to wear. Paul found himself staring at the man’s ass before he quickly averted his eyes, the tips of his ears darkening with a blood rush. Looking at anything but Chris. A rumbling of his stomach successfully pulling his attention for a moment. Hoping the hotel had something left by the time they got there. 

The hotel dining area was small, one side of the room holding a few scattered tablets with staple hotel cheap buffet breakfast food. Sugar cereals, apples, and what looks like a waffle maker but that was debatable. Chris had ended up grabbing a small portion of the overly sugary cereal in a small sealed plastic container and a small thing of milk from one of the mini-fridges. Setting his food down at the table in the far corner of the room. A few other guests of the hotel sitting at the tables, some muttering quietly to each other. Paul grabbed a few things as well, mainly using the cheap coffee maker. The thing whirring and beeping, Paul attempting to pour the watery black coffee into one of the thin paper cups the hotel provided before he walked over to join Chris; who was slowly munching on the cereal and squinting at the table. Which someone had doodled on with a fading green sharpie. The man humming under his breath through a mouthful of cereal. 

_“Think we could have gotten food later,”_ Paul shrugged, taking a tentative sip of his plain coffee.

“ ‘m not waiting around to see what happens after everyone else wakes up and wants food,” Chris snorted, chewing another mouthful of cereal, running his finger over the simple doodle of an uneven flower on the table's surface. “Corey’ll probably drink all coffee,” A nod from Chris, then a sound of agreement. The bassist taking the bite of an apple he’d grabbed, and studying Chris, a small conflicted smile on his face. “You wanna go on a walk later,” The light eyes flicked up from the table, Chris quickly chewing his food, 

“S-sure,” 

_“Hey,_ we don’t have to if you don’t wann--”

“No, _no,_ we might as well explore,” Chris smiled, taking another bite of the sugary cereal and trying to give Paul a reassuring look. “ ‘ll be fun,” The bassist muttering _‘Okay’_ under his breath, looking away from the other man. 

Scanning the room just as Joey stumbled in, accompanied by Craig who looked to be one of the only reasons the drummer was still standing upright. The sampler looked vaguely annoyed as he dragged the shorter man into the room and over near Paul and Chris were sitting. Dumping the drummer in a chair, where Joey’s head immediately collided with the table with a dull thud. Chris snickered under his breath as the drummer groaned and clutched his head. The few other guests in the room shooting them looks, but most of them were used to that. Craig sighed, trudging over to the tables holding various breakfast foods and grabbing one of the paper plates. 

Joey made a gurgling sound, lifting his head to stare at the men sitting across from him. Eyes scanning up and down Chris, who shriveled in his seat as Joey got a small smirk on his face. 

_“Damn,_ he fuckin’ lives,” The drummer raised his eyebrows in mock surprise and lowered his head back to rest on the table, though just by the tone of his voice he was still smirking. “Didn’t think I’d see you alive again, Dicknose. _Guess miracles do fuckin’ happen,”_ Chris felt heat rise on his face, almost making a squeaking sound before he shoved his face back in his cereal and refused to acknowledge anything except for the colorful breakfast food. Paul snorted, his brows had furrowed, 

_“Oh, fuck off, Joe,”_ Joey clicked his tongue, using his middle fingers to drum on the edge of the table. 

“You’re no fun,” 

“Fuck you,” Joey made a mock-purring sound in the back of his throat, 

_“Awe,_ Paulie, you’re so nic--” The drummer grunted when someone slapped the back of his head, Craig looking much too tired to deal with the drummer’s antics. And the possibility of having to break up a fight this early in the day. _Even if in reality it wasn't really that early._

 _“Shut up, Joe,”_ Joey grumbled but relented, tapping a rhythm on his thighs as the sampler set a paper plate of food in front of him. The drummer humming a thank you and finally raising his head fully off the table to eat. Grinning happily at the small plastic bottle of apple juice that was set in front of him. Sure, maybe it was childish, but in Joey’s own words, _‘I may drink apple juice but at least I don't have a crippling fucking caffeine addiction, so fuck you’._ Most of the rest of the band let him enjoy it if not without the occasional teasing. 

Craig sighed as he settled into the seat next to Joey, who was shoving one of the strange plastic-wrapped blueberry muffins in his mouth at a rate that would probably end up making him choke. The sampler unwrapped his own muffin and started to eat it at a much more reasonable pace. Chris finally looking up from the cereal he had almost all the way finished and accidentally catching Joey’s eye, the man winking which only made the percussionist wanna hide under the table, too embarrassed to handle the situation. He felt Paul grab one of his hands squeezing it gently, running a thumb over the reddish knuckles, the result of Chris punching a drum during their last performance; luckily not actually damaging his hand. The percussionist felt a little spark in his chest, face only going redder. So focused on trying to calm himself down he didn’t notice when another man trudged into the room, only walking over to grab a bagel, wrapping it in napkins, and shoving it in his pocket before making a beeline for the group of them. 

A pair of sharp pale blue eyes looking at each of them before finally landing on Chris, looking the man up and down. The man made a grunting sound as he flicked his gaze away and focused back on Paul. The bassist cocking an eyebrow, dark eyes challenging the clown, who almost dared to let the corner of his mouth twitch up into a grin. Shawn shoving both his hands in his pockets and tilting his head towards the door. 

_“Need you for a sec,”_ Paul’s grip on Chris’s hand tightening near imperceptibly. Chris finally looked up to glance between the two. 

_“Why?”_ The clown snorted, but before he could respond Chris caught the bassist’s attention by squeezing the man’s hand hard. When Paul met his eyes, Chris tried to communicate that he should go with Shawn, that he would be fine and they'd meet back at the hotel room. Paul’s mouth morphing into a thin line, but he seemed to understand what Chris was trying to nonverbally communicate. His attention shifting back to the clown, letting go of Chris’s hand and grabbing his coffee cup before standing. _“Fine, you old man,”_ Shawn snorted again and turned on his heel to shuffle out of the room. Paul glanced back at Chris who gave him a shaky smile and a small wave, the man returning the smile and turning to follow Shawn. Chris shifting uncomfortably in his seat. 

_“Do you two have a fuckin psychic connection now?”_ Joey turned back to stare at the percussionist, as he’d been watching the two other men leave. The drummer’s mouth in a smirk, chewing another bite of the muffin; a bit of blueberry staining his lip. Chris trying to mutter a _‘Fuck off’_ as Paul had done earlier but only succeeding in making the shorter man let out a bark of laughter. Suddenly the drummer made a coughing sound and his eyes went wide. Craig sighed, rolling his eyes and smacking the smaller man on the back hard as said man coughed and hacked. Chris watched, snickering under his breath when he realized that Joey was fine and maybe being a bit overdramatic as the man let out a long groan and horsley declared that Craig was trying to kill him with muffins. The sampler wacking the man on the back again especially hard and smiling a bit when Joey was sent into another coughing fit. The sampler turning his attention to Chris,

 _“Can you grab some stuff to help me take back for the others?”_ The percussionist nodded, gathering up the trash on the table, including Joey’s now empty apple juice container; which the drummer had chugged the rest of to help with the coughing. Chris dumped the stuff in a trashcan before going to the table and gathering up a few various things on a plate or two to carry. Waiting by the door and watching as Craig hauled Joey up from his chair and dragged the man with him towards Chris. The drummer still bitching that Craig was an active danger to his life as he waved a mocking goodbye to the rest of the people in the breakfast area, who all looked vaguely confused or frightened by the men. 

The group making their way back into the hallways of the hotel, Chris following behind carrying the plates of food. Craig at one point threatened to drop Joey as the man was still prompt refusing to walk properly on his own. The sampler hissing under his breath that Joey could have stayed in the hotel room with Corey and dealt with the singer’s horrible hangover mood. Joey groaning loudly and finally standing on his own, though he still stumbled a bit probably due to his own slight hangover. Once they reached the room, Craig sighed, fishing the key out of his pocket and unlocking the door. Pushing the door open and grabbing Joey's arms to force the man inside, glancing up at Chris, who followed the two in with only slight hesitation. 

The first thing he heard was someone loudly complaining about the selection of channels on the TV. Chris balanced the second plate on his other arm so he could pull the door shut behind them before he ventured further into the room. Setting the plates on the small desk crammed up against a wall as he scanned the area, flinching at the frankly much too overzealous narration at how bad the channels on the hotel TV were. The complaints coming from Corey, who was laying at an awkward angle near the top of one of the beds. Body twisted so he could lay looking upside down at the television, smashing the remote with his hand. Chris wanting to back out of view as the singer's eyes caught him, but Corey didn’t even give him a second glance and instead focused on Craig, The sampler had grabbed one of the plates the percussionist had set down and was bringing it over to the singer. Though the blonde twisting his body up into a vaguely sitting position and set down the remote to grab the plate he was being handed. Joey swiftly snagging the remote and flopping down on the other bed, earning an angry comment from Corey through a mouthful of food. The drummer flipped the man off as he started to surf the available channels. 

“Morning, Chris,” The percussionist almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the voice behind him, whirling around to see Jim smiling nervously at him. Chris took a deep breath, glancing behind the tall man, quickly coming to the conclusion that the man had been in the bathroom and not simply appeared out of thin air. Only taking a split second to recover from his surprise to look up Jim and smile.

“Mornin’,” Chris could tell Jim wanted to talk to him, and he could take a good guess as to _exactly_ what the man wanted to talk about. Nervous excitement gathering in Chris’s gut. Jim still looked pensive, like he was about to say something more to Chris but his name was called from behind the percussionist. 

_“Jim,”_ Craig pointed at the plate of food on the table, acknowledging the thumbs up Jim gave him before strolling over to the cheap overstuffed chair in the other corner of the room. Chris refocusing on the tall guitarist, whose lips were pursed, about to open his mouth to speak again when Corey shouted at Joey. The room suddenly quite loud as the two started to argue over the TV. Jim grabbed Chris’s sleeve and pulled him towards the door, waving goodbye to Craig who was staring at the two arguing men like they were petulant children. Chris willingly following Jim out of the room and down the hallway, now just barely able to hear the sounds of their bandmates' argument. 

The guitarist led them a bit down the hallway and quickly unlocked the door, pulling it open and letting Chris step inside. The room was almost entirely quiet. The percussionist stepped further inside; his ear-catching a strange noise, glancing into the bathroom on his right, the door wide open and Chris able to see inside where he could just barely see Mick snoozing in the bathtub. The big man’s arms folded across his chest and eyes shut, snoring; giving it was quieter than it normally was. 

_“Yeah,_ tried to move him but, y’know,” Chris nodded, his attention back on Jim who walked past him to awkwardly stand near one of the beds, waiting for something. Chris stepped further into the room as well, though not before pulling the bathroom door closed nearly all the way. 

“Yeah _, uhhh,”_ If he was honest Chris wasn't really sure how to articulate what he wanted to say, nose wrinkling a bit in annoyance with himself. 

_“Did it go okay?”_ Jim sounded tense but relaxed a small bit when Chris nodded. The percussionist stared at his shoes

“It went good, _He uhh--_ Yeah, went okay. We--,” Chris swallowed thickly, a buzzing behind his nose, _“We sorted it out, and he apologize-d,”_ The blue eyes, now welling with a small number of tears, looked up to meet Jim’s gaze, the taller man still had a worried expression on his face, though it was now tinged with relief. 

“But didn’t he apologize before. . . ?” The air in Chris’s throat caught, managing to make a strangled _‘mhm’_ noise. Debating for a second before speaking again. 

_“He c-cried,”_ Jim sucked in a breath, muttering _‘oh’_ as he looked away from Chris. The percussionist shifted on his feet, chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

_“S-so, you’ll be okay, and it won’t,_ y’know, _happen again?”_ Chris nodded, looking at Jim just to try and cement his assuredness on the whole situation. _Even if he was still a bit nervous himself. “Thank God,”_ Chris could hear a slight tremble to Jim’s voice, the taller man moving to envelop Chris in a long-armed hug. The percussionist wrapping his arms around the man as well and squeezing, muttering agreements into a shoulder, blinking the tears that had gathered in his eyes away as best he could. 

The hug only broken up when they heard a loud groan from the bathroom. Chris nearly snorted out a teary laugh as he heard the sound of something falling and then someone groggily swearing. Jim sighed, patting Chris on the head. 

“I’ll go help him,” Chris grinned, rubbing the heel of a hand into his eye. Though before he could step away, Jim grabbed his shoulder with both hands and gave him a hard stare. _“Please tell me if anything else happens, okay?”_ Chris smiled, though there were still a few leftover tears in his eyes. Jim exhaled, letting go of the other man’s shoulder and moving past him towards the bathroom, where Mick was grunting curses and from what it sounded like trying to get up from the bath; and failing. Chris taking a few deep breaths to calm himself. Turning to exit the room, peering into the bathroom to wave to Jim, who dropped one of Mick’s arms to wave back. Already having impressively dragged the man halfway out of the bath, Mick groaning loudly and gurgling something incoherent. 

Chris stepped back into the hallway, closing the door behind him. A weight lifted off his chest, for the first time in a long time actually feeling like everything was okay for the moment. Ambling down the identical carpeted hallways back to his own hotel room, a stupid small smile on his face. Eventually getting back to the proper room, using his key to open the door. Shuffling inside, toeing off his shoes and glancing up. Paul was sitting on the bed, staring at the floor; face twisted in thought. Though the expression dissolved as soon as Chris padded further into the room and made his presence known. The bassist relaxed, smiling at the percussionist, who smiled back. 

“What did Shawn need,” Paul shrugged, face twitching back into a somber expression for a split second. 

_“Eh, y’know,_ Shawn jus’ being Shawn,” Chris made an agreeing sound in the back of his throat, grabbing the remote off the TV stand and flicking the TV on, staring at it as he flipped through channels, though he didn’t yell at the selection, unlike Corey had earlier. _“Where were you?”_ Chris tossed the remote on the bed next to Paul as he sat down, head resting on the bassist's shoulder. The TV flickering with a cooking show that looked like it was filmed in the 1950s.

“Helped Craig take some food back to their room, then chatted with Jim for a sec,” Chris almost regretted saying the last part as he felt Paul’s shoulder tense. The percussionist moved a hand to rest against the other man’s thigh, rubbing against the fabric of the pants. Voice a little shaky as he spoke, “Hey, _Hey,_ don’t worry, Jim is just a friend,” Paul’s shoulders slowly relaxing as the man took a long breath, nodding. Looking shamefully down at his lap. 

_“Sorry,”_ Chris hummed, leaning up to press a kiss to the man’s cheek. 

_“It’s okay,”_ Paul chewing on his lip rings, grabbing Chris’s hand and running a thumb over the textured skin of the man’s palm. 

_“Do you still wanna go on a walk later?”_ Paul sounded unsure, his tone like Chris would say no, but the percussionist smiled. Pecking the man’s cheek again, this time for a bit longer. 

“Yup,” Chris hummed against the skin on Paul’s throat, calming his own breathing, _“But for now, let's stay here,”_ The man fell back onto the bed, dragging Paul with him so the both of them were laying on the mattress. Chris shifted so his lips pressed to the man’s forehead, arms loosely wrapped around the back of the man’s neck. Peppering small kisses across the man’s face, Paul’s eyes flicking closed; making a happy sound in his chest. The bassist's arms slung around Chris’s waist, though not too tightly. Chris hummed, placing a final kiss on the tip of the man’s nose before moving back up and hugging the bassist's head to his chest. _“Love you,”_ Getting a reply muffled by his chest that sounded something like _‘love you too,’_ Chris grinning, petting a hand through Paul’s hair, his own eyes blinking closed. _This was good._

The sun was much lower in the sky once they actually dragged themselves out of their nest of blankets and pillows. To be fair they seldom actually got this much time to sleep in an actual bed. Snoozing until it started to get dark outside, the street lamps flicking on before they even bothered to stumble out of the back door of the hotel. Paul made sure to text Shawn that they weren’t kidnapped before shoving the phone deep in a jacket pocket. 

They were on the outskirts of the city, the area fine for an evening walk. Providing some comfort as it wasn't the middle of a bustling city center. The back alley they had first walked down scattered with trash, a few needles gleaming out from their hiding places under trash bins or stuck in the crevices of a crumbling brick wall. Chris noticed that Paul averted his eyes and shrugged his head further into the collar of his jacket when they had spied the things. The percussionist linking his hand with trying to ignore the man's faint reaction, instead humming to himself, and glazing behind them for anything or anyone that could be following them as they finally exited the back alley and emerged onto a more brightly lit though abandoned street. It wasn't even that late and practically no one was out, Chris pondering out loud as to why. Paul made a joking comment about it being like a mafia movie, which earned him a playful punch in the arm. 

At one point they wandered into a record shop. Gawking at the records while the tired old store clerk watched them, not even perturbed by the bruise on the side of Chris’s face. The percussionist went over to search through one of the racks of records while Paul wandered over to spark up a conversation with the clerk. Eventually getting the man to laugh with a cheesy joke about the band KISS, which lightened the air of the shop. The two chatting about bass and guitar for a long while before they eventually moved on from the shop. Unfortunately not able to spar enough change to actually buy one of the records though. The guy waved them goodbye, wishing them luck. The pair continuing to stroll down the yellow-street lamp-lit streets. Ambling by a jewelry shop, Chris peered into the barred windows, pointing at the golden and silver chains before they kept walking. Eventually circling back to the hotel, actually bothering to go in through the front this time. Stumbling past the front desk to the hallways, the attendants there giving them weird looks as Chris was snickering loudly at Paul, a bright smile on his face. Their hands linked together as they wandered down the hallway. 

Luckily they actually made it back to their room without running into any of their bandmates, who were probably going out to drink again, well, maybe. Didn’t really matter. Chris padding into their room, followed by Paul. The percussionist shrugged off his outer layers, tossing his shoes across the room, still grinning as he tugged his hair out of the small ponytail it had been in. Paul was sitting down on the foot of one of the beds, untying his boots and setting them down near his bag. Unzipping his jacket, hands trembling just the smallest bit. The other man waited until the bassist had tossed away his jacket before getting closer and gently grabbing the man’s face. Chris running fingers through the man’s hair, crooning something under his breath. Paul moved back further onto the bed to allow the man an easier time climbing onto his lap. Arms looping around Paul’s shoulders as Chris settled in his newfound seat, straddling Paul’s thighs, legs folded against the bed. The bassist's large hands hesitantly settling on Chris’s hips, fingers half under the man’s shirt against the warm skin. 

The arms slung around Paul’s shoulders shifting as a hand moved to fiddle with the string of silver beads around the man’s neck. Rolling the beads between his fingers and humming, studying Paul’s face. The man staring off to the side, avoiding looking at Chris until the percussionist moved both his hands to the side of the man’s face, tilting it so the bassist was forced to look up at him. 

_“You okay?”_ Those words were only slightly ironic coming from Chris’s mouth, the brunette catching something stirring in the dark eyes before the man mumbled. 

_“Mhm,”_

_“We can stop if you want, Paulie,”_ The hand’s on Chris’s waist tighten their hold for a moment, the bassist shaking his head. 

“Don’t wanna stop, _Jus--,”_ The man paused, eyes darting away from Chris, _“Don’t wanna end up hurting you again,”_ The bassist thumb gazing over a bruised hip bone, causing Chris to chew at the inside of his cheek. 

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” The bassist almost snorted, _“I’ll tell you if anything hurts, okay?”_ Paul took a second before nodding, Chris leaning forwards to peck a kiss on the man’s cheek before shifting. Bringing his arms back to pull off his shirt, Paul watching as more and more of the percussionist abdomen was exposed. Chris had to admit it felt nice to know that the man would stop if he asked him to, just judging by the look in the man’s eyes it was easy to tell that much. Even if a little scared part of Chris’s mind told him that everything was too good and sugary and something would go wrong. He couldn’t help but ignore it, if now was the good times, why not bask in it for as long as it lasted. 

The hands on his hips drifting up his sides to trail fingers over ribs and skin before gently scratching nails back down. A shiver running up Chris’s spine. Paul’s lips pressing to the percussionist’s clavicle, the rings through his lips grazing against the skin. Chris’s hands petting through the man’s hair, pulling softly at the short curls when the mouth dared to start sucking a small hickey into his skin. The mount continued when Chris made a mewling sound, the percussionist’s legs tensing up. A breathy _‘please’_ rising from his throat, which made the bassist move to suck another love bite into the pale skin, a little more confident this time. A need simmering in the pit of the percussionist's belly, he wanted the man to touch him like he was doing right now. Gently and softly and _lovingly._ To replace all the painful bruising memories of the same hands with better ones. A moan getting drawn out of the brunette as the mouth moved to the side of his neck, kissing along the curve of his throat and nipping at the flesh. 

_“Paulie,”_ The man froze like he was doing something wrong. Chris shaking in his arms, _“Please keep going,”_ The bassist inhaled sharply, his hands going tighter on the man’s hip for a second before Chris gasped again. Paul remembered the bruises on the man’s hips, guilt surging through him. 

_“Sorry,”_ Chris shifted closer, muttering in reply, 

_“ ’s okay,”_ The percussionist letting out a shaky breath, his hand running through Paul’s hair, _“I like it,”_ Chris could feel the man tense up, a surprised sound coming from the man’s chest, 

_“O-oh,”_ Heat rose in Chris’s face at the man’s response, the color of his neck subtly changing to a more pinkish hue as he felt the man under him pull him closer. Mouthing along his throat until he got up to Chris’s jaw which he left little soft kisses along, eventually pausing. They were face to face now, Paul still refusing to meet his eyes, their lips hovering just barely apart. Chris was the one to close the gap. His hand simultaneously pulled the man towards him and leaned forward himself, pressed chest to chest, their lips rushing to meet each other and doing so with a muffled sound from both of them. Chris tilting his head and squeezing his eyes shut, soon getting the same reciprocation from Paul, who groaned and brushed his hands up and down Chris’s legs, sliding over the skin with a delicate touch. A tongue working its way into Paul’s mouth, the bassist letting out a surprised sound that was swallowed down by Chris, who pressed against him. The percussionist daring to buck his hip, dick starting to swell with arousal as he felt Paul’s tongue move against his own. The man tasted of coffee and cigarettes, with a sprinkling of sugar. Chris moaning down the man’s throat, hand scrambling to keep the man close to him, as much as the other man was holding back; eventually melting into the kiss. Thumbs tracing circles over Chris’s hip bones, catching the edge of a barely visible scar that graced the skin. Another pang in Paul’s chest. 

Chris’s lungs, unfortunately, demand that he pull away to catch a few lungfuls of air while the bassist panted as well, watching the percussionist's face. Which had flushed up, almost matching the bruise on his cheekbone. Paul’s eyebrow furrowing slightly, raising a hand to gently cup Chris’s face, running a thumb as lightly as he could over the mark. 

_“We can stop anytime you want,”_

_“I don’t want to stop,”_ Paul couldn’t respond before his mouth was trapped in another needy kiss from the percussionist, who was rocking his hips forward and making noises into Paul’s mouth. _Good noises._ The bassist hadn't noticed Chris’s hands move down to worm fingers under the hem of his shirt, the percussionist tugging up the fabric. The bassist only slightly hesitant before they broke apart so Chris could tug off the shirt. The both of them left shirtless, warms skin against warm skin. Chris making a sound in the back of his throat and rocking side to side, arms back looped around Paul’s neck. The low light of the room making the percussionist's blue eyes gleam. _“Please,”_ Chris’s voice sounded like thick honey, sugary sweet and fucking _irresistible._

The bassist was staring like the man had fallen from heaven, a blush of his face, hands caressing over the pale skin of Chris’s waist. He desperately wanted to get his hands on the man, but he was waiting, and it was causing the heat in his stomach to build and boil to a nearly unbearable degree. Chris let out a needy sound, _“Lube?”_ Paul took a second to process what the man had asked before he nodded, muttering something about it being in the front left pocket of his bag, only regretting it when the percussionist shifted back and climbed off his lap. Which Paul only resisted a bit by grabbing at his hips, though they eventually slipped out of his grasp when Chris regained his footing on the carpeted hotel floor and stumbled over to Paul’s bag. The percussionist dug through it until he found a small bottle of lube, standing back up from where he’d bent over, turning to see Paul; _who’d definitely not been staring at his ass._

Chris’s eyes were clouded over with what seemed to be lust as he shuffled back over to Paul while making a face that looked like he was thinking. Paul’s hand settled back on the man’s hips when Chris stood in front of him, the percussionist eyebrows knitting together heat rising in his face. _“D’ya think I could ummm. . .”_ Chris’s whole face was going a bright shade of pink, no longer able to even look at Paul’s eyes, instead fascinating himself with the tattoo etched across the man’s shoulder. _“Ride you?”_ Paul’s mouth morphed into a small smile at how cute and flustered the other man looked, not that he really looked any better, cheeks lit up like a Christmas tree. 

_“Anything you want, angel,”_ If it was possible, Chris’s face went an even deeper shade of crimson, the percussionist nodding sheepishly, setting the lube down beside them on the bed. Paul not stopping the other man as hands moved to undo his belt, slinking in to undo the pants with trembling fingers, though luckily the fingers were shaking more from lust and not worry. The bassist made a grunting sound when Chris’s fingers worked their way into his pants and below his boxers. Letting one of his hands fall off the percussionist’s hip so he could lean back more, allowing the man easier access. The fingers quickly darting to wrap around his already fully-hard dick, pulling it out of the plaid patterned boxers. Chris made a noise in the back of his throat, which only served to make the heat in Paul’s belly roil again, his dick twitching in the palm of the percussionist’s hand. Chris’s fingers, unfortunately, pulled away; hooking in in the hem of the bassist’s pants and boxers, pulling them down as far as he could, eventually Paul lifted himself off the bed a bit to help get the clothes off. The bassist left stark naked sitting on the edge of the bed staring at Chris, with his dick oozing precum on his thigh. The percussionist was chewing on his lip, his eyes still clouded over. 

_“Here,”_ Paul was careful to look for any rejection as he leaned forward, reaching a hand to lay over the man’s hip to guide Chris closer to him. So close than he was now back standing between Paul’s legs, his chest about eye level with Paul’s face. The bassist shifted, his mouth going to gently kiss just right to the center of the man’s flushed up chest, hands going to slowly drag down the man’s own boxers, freeing the erection that was very clearly straining against the thin fabric. Paul’s hand tracing along the line of Chris’s hip, down against the soft supple skin of the man’s inner thigh. The percussionist was trembling, moving to sling his arms back around Paul's shoulders. The light fluttery kisses counting to trace over Chris’s chest, slowly zeroing in on the man’s pierced nipple. Which Paul brought into his mouth, gently sucking on his and rolling his tongue over it to get the brunette to tremble and let out a moaning sound. Trying to be as gentle as possible and listening carefully for any hint of dislike as Paul slid his other hand over Chris’s hip and around to squeeze at the fat of the man’s ass, which was soft and pliable under his fingers. Chris making breathy hitches noises in the back of his throat, a hand moving to knot in Paul’s hair and pull the man a bit closer so the double pierced lips pressed harder, teeth barely grazing against his skin. 

_“Please,”_ Chris’s voice was shaky, Paul continued to delicately lick at the pierced nipple, tonguing at the ring through it. _“I-i need you,”_ Fuck. Paul couldn't resist that. Pulling away from the percussionist so they could both climb onto the bed. Paul laying down with his head on the pillow and Chris moving to straddle his thighs, the percussionist holding the lube in one of his hands. Paul’s hands had moved to lay over Chris’s thighs, petting at the downy hairs there and admiring the man above him. Chris tried to use his trembling fingers to open the cap of the lube, finally succeeding after his third attempt and smearing some of the lubricant onto his fingers. His face still flushed with color, heat high on his cheekbones as his blue eyes flicked up to look at Paul, who was looking at him like Chris had just become the prettiest person in the world. It made the percussionist's chest twist, his throat constrict. Blue eyes quickly darting away. Chris swallowing thickly as he shifted his hips back a bit and slid his lubed up fingers between his asscheeks. A shiver ran up from his spine from the coolness of the lube as he pressed a finger to his hole. Chris already felt like he was going to explode, his ass still slightly sore from before as he discovered when the first fingers pushed in. The percussionist letting out a high-pitched breathy sound, the hand he’d been using to steady himself clutching at the blankets of the bed, the large hands on his upper thighs helping to steady him. The man below him whispering quiet orders of _‘breathe,’_ as Chris sunk the first finger in, mewling as he curled it inside. He already felt like he was going to implode. 

It was probably too soon to add the second finger, but Chris didn’t care. There was enough lube and he couldn’t bring himself to wait, working the second finger in as best he could at the angle and curling them together. His dick dripped precum onto one of Paul’s thighs as Chris shivered, sliding the fingers in and out. Chris whimpering when the calloused hands on his own thighs massaged at the tensing muscles as the man under his crooned encouragement. Another whimper from the brunette when he was forced to pull the fingers all the way out so he could add more of the lube. Slowly fucking the two fingers back into himself, his stomach muscles jumping, hair hanging around his face, a particular strand sticking to his chin due to the drool leaking from the corner of his mouth. Once the third digit pushed in, Chris was making mewling noises with every other breath. His insides were oversensitive, stomach-churning, he very much wanted, _needed,_ Paul at the moment. 

The third finger finding its place next to the previous two, the pads of his fingers rubbing at his guts, the boiling heat building in his belly was going to make him sick. Chris letting out a shameless moan. _Fuck._ Another shameless pitched moan as he pulled the fingers out. Grabbing the bottle of lube again and shifting his attention to the bassist dick, which lay heavy and twitching against the man’s belly, the various piercings through it shiny. Precum leaking from the head smeared across the caramel skin. Chris grabbing the cock, using a hand to slather more of the lubricant over it. Making sure to stroke it a few times, Paul grunting under him and rocking his hips into the touches. Once the lube sufficiently coated the dick, Chris eagerly shifted himself forward so he was kneeling over Paul’s belly. The bassist's dark eyes still tracing over him as Chris reached behind himself and grabbed the man’s cock, which got the bassist to groan, the hands on Chris’s thighs squeezing. The ring through the tip of Paul’s dick brushing against Chris, who exhaled sharply. The percussionist letting himself sink, the head of the dick stretching him, his body protesting but the need clawing in his guts wasn't going to settle down unless he got a cock in his guts right _now._

The piercing through the head already grazed along his insides and made pleasure spark up his spine as he let his hips drop a little more. The first barbell piercing caught on the edge of his hole, Chris whimpering and chewing his lip as he pushed hips down again and forced the thing inside. The percussionist’s skull was thrumming, the good kind of burning pain oozing like syrup through his veins. His eyes refusing to focus. With each movement of his body further and further down to skewer himself on the dick, Chris let out whimpering moaning sounds, his chest shaking as he tried to breathe. A small comfort as the hands on his hips traced circles into his skin, Chris's own arms hanging limply at his sides, it was too much effort to move them as all his concentration was focused on controlling his legs and not letting himself collapse. Well, _yet._

Every single time Chris let himself sink further, it felt more and more like the dick was already in his throat. Though this time the feeling was _wonderful_. Chris letting out a long whining sound. The soup of heat and neediness in his gut was going to overpower him. The rash lust-fueled part of him rearing its head, Chris squeezing his eyes closed, His legs giving out, his body slamming down the last few inches, which made them both let out a chorus of grunts and moans. Chris’s eyes jolted open and rolled into the back of his head. The man under him was growling chest heaving with barely controlled deep breaths, and the nauseatingly perfect way Chris’s body felt around him nearly overwhelmed his senses.

The fire in the percussionist’s belly was burning like hell itself had taken up residence. The man barely able to keep himself upright. _Everything was fine. Better than fine. Fucking wonderful. Sickeningly so._ Chris couldn’t stop the drool dribbling down his chin, his mouth hanging open as his body slowly adjusted to the cock inside him. Familiar, but this time very much wanted. 

The first roll of the percussionist's hips made the man’s head go sideways. Chris letting out a strangled whimpering sound and repeating the small movement this time with more vigor. Unable to control his mouth which babbled words under his breath, mostly along the lines of curses and pleas. The hands on his thighs squeezing hard at the flesh, the man under Chris was trying desperately not to buck up into the welcoming wonderful body tensing around him. The both of them entirely lost in each other. Chris rolling his hips again, head bent forward and hair falling in his face. Each lungful of air a challenge. The need for more building in his gut again, Chris daring to force his trembling legs to raise himself off the dick barely an inch, then let himself drop back down. A high pitched keening sound ripping from his throat as a mix of pain and pleasure shocked through him. Paul grunting, his nails digging into the percussionist skin, the bassist was in heaven with the man on top of him. 

Chris’s head was rolling back as he lifted himself up and dropped back down again. How own dick untouched between his thighs, dripping milky precum onto Paul’s honey skin. Chris so focused on rolling and fucking himself on the dick he couldn’t grasp anything else, high brain functions shutting down. He was lifting himself almost all the way off the dick now, the thing oozing precum inside of him. Chris’s babbling now nearly incomprehensible. 

Chris whimpering when he felt the hands on his hips hold him down, rocking back and forth, tilting his head up to look at Paul to see what had prompted the man to stop him. Then Chris’s face went fully pink, the percussionist letting out a sound like a kicked dog as he saw what had happened. The bassist raised one of his hands up to his face to wipe off the bit of cum that had splatter onto his cheek, making a shushing sound when Chris whined again. The brunette about to squeak out an apology when the orgasm that had reached his dick before his brain caught up and smacked the percussionist in the face like a stray baseball bat. The words he was going to say melting on his tongue, replaced by a long breathy moan, his head tilting back and body spasming. The percussionist's body locked up while he shivered and whimpered. Thighs tensing around Paul’s sides, the only thing keeping him upright was the hand still steady on his hip, caressing over the sweaty skin. Chris’s whole body moving with little jolts, his face twitching as he tilted his head back on straight. Blue eyes foggy as they looked back to Paul, who was gazing at the man in reverence. A blush rising again on Chris’s face when his brain went back online. He could see his own ejaculant splatter over Paul’s belly, the bit that had managed to reach the man’s cheek had been wiped off, though Chris was still blushing hard. The percussionist brought unsteady hands up to cover his face, whimpering something that sounded like a sorry. 

_“Awe, Chrissy, baby--,”_ The brunette made an embarrassed sound in the back of his throat. _“You okay?”_ Chris sniffed from behind his hands like he was trying to hide from Paul’s eyes. The bassist crooning something under his breath. 

_“ ‘m sorry, It jus’--,”_ Chris’s hips jolted forward again by their own volition and made the percussionist whine, burying his face further in his hands, which only further muffled his embarrassed whispers. _“Felt really g-good,”_ The words made Paul’s chest fill with a warm feeling of satisfaction, _for once he wasn't hurting the man._ The bassist reaching hands up to gently hold Chris’s wrists and pull them away from the percussionist’s face. The percussionist's face still flushed as he looked away, not trying to recover his face but still squeezing his eyes shut and refusing to look at Paul. 

_“Angel,”_ Chris made a mewling sound, _“You’re adorable,”_ The percussionist's face was still burning cherry red, it looked like Paul was about to say something else when Chris rolled his hips. Causing the both of them to groan, Chris panting. The simulation in his belly now much more immediate, more like fire, but he didn’t care, rocking his hips again to get the bassist to inhale sharply. Chris absolutely determined to get the man to fall apart, even if in the process he would as well. Just barely able to even control his trembled legs, Chris was able to raise himself a few unsteady inches before dropping again. There was no control on the way down, Chris choking out a strangled noise and taking a second to recover. All his nerves seemed fried and over sensitive, but at the moment it was all worth it. The bassist's face was twisted in pleasure, the man’s hand still loosely wrapped around Chris’s wrists, breathing heavily with every movement of Chris’s gasping body on top of him. 

The percussionist’s feverish movements increased in veracity as more desperate sounds rose from Chris’s throat. The man sounding like he was going to die as he started to fuck himself on the cock again, his movements sloppy and manic but determined. Paul squeezing his eyes shut, not able to stop himself from bucking his hips up into the man; who moaned and gasped for air. The display only served to encourage the bassist, who bucked his hips again to meet Chris’s body. Eventually starting up a feverish rhythm, that both of them seemed to enjoy. Paul could feel the knots of an orgasm tighten in his gut, and _fuck_ if the sounds Chris was making didn’t speed it along. The bassist grunting, the muscles in his shoulders and back tightening, face screwed in pleasure. His hand letting go of Chris’s wrists and moving to the brunette’s hips. The old bruises throbbing in dull pain, through Chris, if nothing else, liked the sensation. Paul’s hands helped him drop down fast to meet the man’s thrusts. 

Finally, Paul’s muscles tensed hard, hands digging into the flesh of the man’s hips and forcing him down onto the cock. Chris’s body jolting and nearly going limp as he felt the dick twitch deep in his belly. The warm feeling of ejackulant slicking his insides. Chris let out weak moans, trying to roll his hips again, tensing his inner muscles as more of the sticky fluid was fucked into him. The man under him was grunting and panting, his fingers digging into Chris’s skin, adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he tried to swallow down breaths of air. The bassist’s head was fuzzy, filled with thick sugary cotton. The afterglow of his orgasm flooded through his form, causing his hips to buck and thrust into Chris’s body a few times. A bit of cum leaking out from the percussionist’s body as the brunette rocked his hips back and forth, mewling low in his throat. 

Inside Paul’s head, the man was still having trouble grasping reality, forcing his body to take in lungfuls of air. Eventually able to refocus his eyes on the man above him, who was having a significant amount of trouble staying upright, leaning dangerously to one side. Paul managed to grab the man’s arms and lean him forward, Chris whimpering as the dick was moved inside of him, overstimulated near painful as he tilted forward; collapsing onto Paul’s chest. The bassist grunting and wrapping his arms around the percussionist, who made a weak moaning sound. The softening cock in the brunette's ass dislodged itself with a wet sound, Chris trembling hard as a rush of ejaculant followed and made a mess between them. The percussionist's legs bent at an awkward angle, but at the moment he didn’t care, it was too difficult to move, drowsiness hitting him over the head like a shovel. 

The fingers tracing along Chris’s back were gentle, tracing the bumps and nodules of the man’s spine. The both of them wallowing in their post-orgasm hazes, Chris’s body felt like a warm blanket or the bassist, both of them breathing in sync. Chris’s head right over Paul’s shoulder, mouth close to the man’s ear. The percussionist's shallow breath tickled the carmeal skin of his neck, voice breathy and barely audible when he spoke. 

_“I love you,”_ Paul only paused for a second in reply, his heart nearly beating out of his chest. 

_“Love you too, angel,”_ The arms around Chris tightening to hug the man to the bassist's sweaty warm comforting chest, Chris making a soft noise in his throat as he nuzzled into the man’s shoulder. _“So so much,”_

When they did finally manage to get themselves out of bed and into a shower, they spent most of the time under the hot water making out rather than cleaning themselves. Eventually reasonably drying themselves off and stumbling back to beg, okay well, Paul stumbled back to bed with Chris in his arms. Luckily collapsing into the other bed, which was clean curling in the blankets together; Chris’s head tucked right under Paul’s chin, their arms around each other. No need to set an alarm, they had another day or so in the hotel anyway. And who cares about waking up early if you’re in someone else’s arms. 

They did wake up to the news that they would be leaving by plane from the city, then another two or so more weeks of touring before an extra-long bus ride back to their lovely home of Des Moines, Iowa. Chris getting that anxious yet excited feeling in his gut. 

Airports tend to be quiet around 4:30 am. _Tend to be._ Sid was doing a moonwalk across the floor and pretending to be a white tattooed version of Micheal Jackson while Joey was balling up pages of a magazine he’d snagged from one of the airport bookstores and throwing them at the Dj, yelling out scores every time he hit the man in the head or nuts. Well, not really yelling, he’d yelled the first few times he’d nailed the Dj in the face but Shawn had told him to, quote _‘shut the fuck up’_. And an earlier morning clown was something no one really wanted to argue with. Luckily for them, they had the terminal almost all to themselves. One man in the corner napping with a newspaper over his face was their only company. Chris had been watching the guy and was almost convinced the man was dead before a hand came up to move the newspaper off his face. The man peering over at them, his eyes going a bit wide, then slowly moving the newspaper back over his face. Which made Chris almost snort out a laugh. 

A loud groan from the floor catching Chris’s attention, looking to see Corey laying face down on the floor between the rows of terminal seats. Making Chris wrinkle his nose. He’d may have dealt with the filth of tours and stage shows, but airport floors are a whole different matter. Though it didn’t seem to matter to Corey who groaned again and rolled over onto his side, colliding with Mick’s boots. The guitarist cracking open an eye under his baseball cap and lazily kicking the singer away, Corey making an indignant noise and rolling back onto his face. 

_“Cor get off the fuckin’ floor, dude,”_ Jim’s sleepy voice, the tall man slumping, long legs stretched out in the seat next to Mick, who Chris was pretty sure had started sleeping again. The taller of the two guitarists lightly brushing the toe of his shoes against the singer's blonde head. Which only achieved in getting a grunt out of the singer and a half-hearted middle finger. Jim sighing in annoyance and leaning down to drag the smaller man up into the seat next to him. Corey not exactly resisting, but certainly not helping. A smug grin on his face, Jim rolling his eyes as he pulled the man up into the seat. The singer collapsed against him, still grinning, Jim tempted to push the man off but decided against it. At least he wasn't on the floor anymore.

Chris watched with an amused look on his face as Jim leaned over so his head was resting against Mick’s shoulder. The other guitarist not stopping the display, only grunting at the combined weight of the two other men pushed against him. The three of them huddled together on the seats. The percussionist watched in amusement as Corey’s head was bent at an awkward angle, resting against Jim’s ribs, the guitarist’s long arm slung around the man. Chris’s eyes eventually flitting away from the trio to see Craig snatch a magazine from Joey; the drummer was still distracted by Sid who was trying to do a handstand. _And failing._ The sampler quietly flipping through the remaining pages of the magazine, ignoring the other two men near him and huddling down in his sweatshirt, the strings of the hoodie pulled fast so the hood hid most of his face. 

The Dj making a squealing sound as he balanced on his head, Joey egging him on. Though the drummer groaned and rolled his eyes as Shawn approached. The clown grabbed one of the Dj’s ankles, forcing the man to tip over. Falling on his back only to be held up by his ankle, which Shawn only held on to for a moment before quickly dropping it to the floor to join the rest of the Dj’s limbs. Said Dj whining, crossing his arms and looking indignant despite his position on the airport floor. Shawn excused himself from the flip phone he had been chatting into, covering the receiver with a hand before snarling at the Dj to stop causing trouble. The clown casting a glare Joey’s way as well before spinning on his heel and marching away to returning to his conversation on the phone, probably with the managers and roadies who had caught flights earlier in the morning, or were already on their way to the venue in the busses, having been hauling ass since sometimes the day before early in the morning. Chris didn’t know why Shawn had suddenly decided they could fly, but at the moment he didn’t care. A plane is better than a bus, plus they gave out free peanuts. 

The hand that he’d barely remember had wrapped around his sometimes much earlier squeezed, a thumb brushing over his knuckles. Chris’s cheeks went a little pink when he registered the bassist's gaze tracing over his face. The percussionist's cheeks only getting pinker when Paul leaned in to give the other man a brief kiss on the temple, which got Chris to shift in his seat, pressing his shoulder against the bassist. It felt good to sit next to the man, holding his hand in an airport at the quiet hours of the morning with their bandmates sleeping or wreaking havoc around them. Chris relaxing into his sweatshirt and squeezing the bassist's hand back, a silent _‘I love you’_. Getting a gentle squeeze back. 

With all the apparent luck of heaven on their side, they’d managed to all get onto the plane without anyone getting caught in the engines. Hell, it’d been a miracle in the first place they'd been able to get through the damn security checkpoints. One particular security officer, who looked like she attended church an extra day each week and who probably thought anything other than bible songs where the devil’s work, eyed them all up and down like the men were the spawns of the antichrist. Though Mick, _in his classic dry sense of humor,_ had lowered his sunglasses and winked at the woman as they all walked away because apparently, they didn’t draw enough suspicion as it was. 

A few more people had joined them at the terminal before the bordering started, including that man from earlier who’d finally realized the nine peculiar men were indeed not a figment of his imagination, though Chris had seen the man blink hard at them more than once, rubbing his eyes like he was checking his vision. Sid had waved at him, which didn't seem to help; judging by the face the man pulled.

Once they got onto the small plane, Chris was jammed into the middle seat next to Paul, Joey on the percussionist’s other side by the window seat. He knew the flight wouldn’t be terribly long so he was fine with the cramped conditions, he planned on sleeping through it anyway, planes were really never his strong suit. _But it was better than driving,_ as the percussionist had been reminding himself. Chris squeezing Paul’s hand again, just a small squeeze, like he was afraid someone would catch them. Though it’s not like anyone really cared, Joey was already staring out the window at the harshly illuminated tarmac. The percussionist heartbeat, which he hadn’t even realized was slowly speeding up, settled back down as Paul squeezed his hand back. _This is fine._

The plane didn’t crash. Which was good, despite what Sid and Corey had been discussing in the row of seats behind Chris about the plane doing loopty loops and barrel rolls in the sky, then losing control and hitting the ground. Chris doing his best to ignore them. The airport they’d landed in had been slightly busier than the one before, a flurry of people hustled past them as the men tried to stay together in the airport and reclaim their bags so they could board a few vans that were waiting to take them to the venue, where they could just maybe catch a wink of sleep before having to put on a show. The percussionist yawning just at the thought as he climbed into the van. _Chris couldn’t wait._

They were on the road again. Every other day or so was another show, the occasional few days off for a break in some cheap hotel to explore some nameless city with its own brand of crazy people. Chris had picked up the habit of stealing at least one or two pens from every venue or hotel they stayed at. Having quite the collection hidden in the depths of his bag for no other reason than something to do to distract himself. The near-constant humming and rumbling of the bus's engine under his feet during the trip had become familiar a long time ago, not to mention the cramp living conditions. Though there were a few things Chris enjoyed about the long bus rides. Well, more specifically, not really things, more like _someone._ Chris getting that twisting feeling in his chest when he even thought of Paul, even if they weren’t always together. Since Paul had decided he’d stopped caring what the other members of the band thoughts about he and Chris, the man had taken up doing little things like kissing Chris’s cheek or hugging the man, or otherwise seeking in any fashion he could think of to make the percussionist’s face go red. Not to mention the teasing from their bandmates. The unholy trio taking turns seeing who could make Chris’s face go the most red. Despite everything the percussionist never once demanded the bassist stop his little displays of attention, _well,_ unless they went a little too far, especially in public. 

The only real thing that had ended up worrying Chirs was the occasional moments of distance from the bassist. Sometimes a day or so where the man would seem like he was off in his own little world. Or sometimes when he’d leave and go somewhere, neglecting to inform Chris of where he was. Even if any annoyance or irritation felt by Chris was immediately swept away when Paul would return; giving him a soft smile and whispering a few sugary words in the percussionist's ear, sometimes a small apology and a kiss on the cheek as a cherry on top. _It was fine._

For now, it was one of the good moments though. Chris sitting relaxed on one of the couches, his back on the armrest, blue eyes just barely keeping themselves open. The percussionist almost nodded off a few times as he delicately stroked the soft curly hair of the other man whose head was in his lap. Paul laying with his head pillowed against Chris’s belly, the percussionist fingers playing with his hair as the bassist napped, just barely unconscious and perfectly comfortable. Chris muttering something under his breath as the bus went over what must have been a rough patch of road and caused an abrupt jolt. It was late, most of the others having escaped up to their beds, though Craig was still reading a book on a couch across from the two, and maybe some of the other men were still playing a quiet game of cards. But Chris wasn't really paying attention; Paul’s hair was silky between his fingers and despite the awkward angle his own head was at; He was about 99.999% sure that he wasn't going to get back up to get into his proper bunk to sleep anyway. Chris had already resigned himself to this fate as he relaxed even more into the couch, fiddling with a curl of the dark hair between his fingers. His blue eyes drifting shut again. Hell, he’d probably have a backache when he woke up. But it was okay, the bassist half laying on top of him and snoozing away.

It was the last leg of the tour now. Every single one of them was tired down to the bone, stripped down to the fucking bone. Since everyone had become close to manic every show; constantly pissy and overaggressive. The performances tended to result in a lot more punches to the face, as well as more general violence and chaos. _Not to mention the fire._ But it’s not as if the crowd didn't love it. Hell, during one of the shows Sid thrown up into a setlist, balled it up, and threw it into the audience, who went wild trying to scramble for it. _Typical maggots._

Chris was at the moment trying to knead at the overstressed muscles and tendons of his neck, working his fingers into the knots of muscles in an effort to lessen the headache that was simmering at the base of his skull. He knew from the loud phone conversation Shawn had been having with what must have been a manager for the last 45 _fucking_ minutes in the front of the bus that they only had two shows left. Chris silently begged the clown to shut up, even if the older man wouldn’t until he’d talked his own tongue off. Chris squeezing his eyes shut, trying to distract himself while he kept massaging the muscles in his neck, leaning back against the couch. Besides the burning pain in his head, his legs weren’t doing much better. The last hotel night that they’d had about a week ago, he’d been kept up by Paul sucking way too many hickies onto his inner thighs, not that the percussionist didn’t enjoy them. _But,_ it did make it a little harder to move without his legs becoming pleasantly sore. Chris had picked up the habit of delicately tracing a finger around some of the lovebites just to make himself flinch, his face going pink every time even as they faded back into his skin.

At this point Chris was fully spacing out, staring stupidly at the roof of the bus, his hands forgetting what they were doing and simply slouching down to his sides. Luckily for him, his mouth was closed, otherwise, some other lucky bandmate would have used his mouth as a target for paper ball throwing practice. The percussionist was thinking, his chest twisting at the thoughts of the man that were swirling in the world pool of his head. He’d been worried about him, slowly the last few days the bassist had grown. . . _distant?_ Even as they spent time together the man seemed to see right through Chris, like he was looking at the wall behind him. It was like Paul had been trapped in one of the bad moments and was stuck like glue.

 _He doesn’t love you anymore._ Chris’s eyebrows furrowed, that hurt to even think. No, _no,_ he was sure the man still loved him. Maybe he just needed some space from everyone after the tour, yeah, yeah, that seemed right, _right? It’s fine._ Everything’s fine. Chris’s eyes screwing shut harder. _He just needed some time, shouldn’t bother him about it. It’ll be fine. Maybe he’s planning something and is nervous about it. I don't know. Maybe, but it’s fine._

The percussionist didn’t get a chance to further spiral into his well of panic as the bus went over a bump in the road and jostled him. Blue eyes blinking to clear the haze that had settled over them, flitting around to see Shawn, who was finally off the phone, stepping out from the front of the bus. 

“We’ll be at the venue in an hour, running a bit late,” The man squinting at a pile of papers as he spoke. “Mind helping wake up the sleepers,” Chris sighed but nodded. It wasn't really a question, he knew that. Stumbling out of his seat on the couch and staggering up the stairs to the second floor of the bus. At least with more of the men awake and kicking, there wouldn’t be a moment of silence where he could actually think. Chris letting out a tension-filled breath. 

The show had gone off without a hitch, _beside them almost being late._ But at least they were all alive and not on their way to a hospital or mental institution. During the show, Chris had nearly been lit ablaze by pyro, which had forced him to desperately bat at the pant leg of his coveralls in an attempt not to be burned alive like a crucified witch. Though he did escape with mostly intact leg hair. Stumbling off the stage to pry the much too hot mask off his face, gasping for air. Somehow finding his way back to the greenroom to start stripping off his jumpsuit. 

Chris trying to lazily scrub the black paint from around his eyes, standing in front of a dirty graffitied-on mirror in a bathroom just off the green room. The walls covered in scribble messages from people who’d stopped by to take a visit. The percussionist yawned, giving up and tossing the paper towels he’d been using into the trashcan and trudging back into the green room, where only some of his bandmates remained. Though Chris wasn't really interested in talking at the moment, instead gathering up a few of his things to take back to the bus and stumbling out the door. Once he’d taken a short visit back to the bus to drop off the few things, Chris debated simply passing out in his bunk. But there was something itching in the back of his head. _He needed a fuckin’ cig,_ which was uncommon but maybe the stress was getting to him.

Chris almost tripped as he descended the stairs of the bus, glancing around for any roadies from who he could snatch a cigarette. Running a hand through his greasy hair and making an annoyed sound in the back of his throat as he trudged around the buses. The afternoon sun was much too hot, riding low in the sky in that familiar midwest way over far off hills that never seemed to end. The feeling of homesickness that had been plaguing him since the news they would be heading back soon stewing in his stomach, rising in the back of his throat. Chris itching the side of his neck right under his ear, rolling his head back to stretch the tight muscles of his shoulders. He hadn’t been able to find a proper hair tie, and he couldn’t be bothered to find one, brushing the hair out of his face again. The sun makes his skin feel sticky and warm. 

The man stumbling back toward the venue, trying to avoid the crowds of scampering roadies and yelling managers. Slipping behind a row of tents and into a field of box trucks. The activity around him humming in the background, some far off band playing like a soundtrack. Chris wasn't really sure where he was going, but something in his stomach was pulling him down a narrow passage between a line of tightly packed metal storage boxes. Finally, Chris escaped the narrow passage and into a small open area, then immediately debated stumbling back in when he spied the man sitting in the grass leaning back against one of the metal boxes smoking a cigarette across from him. The man’s dark eyes were closed, his face relaxed as the sun warmed his skin, the cigarette hanging from his lips. Chris studied the man, noticing how his right sleeve was pushed up slightly, the pack of cigarettes resting next to him, and-- The percussionist's face went pink when one of the man’s eyes cracked open and locked onto him. 

Paul’s face tilted down, a hand raising to pluck the cigarette from his lips, it looked like his skin was glowing a bit in the afternoon sun, an extra golden warmth. _He looked so pretty._ Chris stood awkward until the man gestured for him to join him. The bassist shifted to shove something into the tufts of grass around the side of the metal container, though Chris didn’t notice as he first glanced behind him and finally moved to amble closer to the man, eyes on his shoes. A hand patting the grass next to Paul on the other side from where the man had moved to hide something. Chris only slightly hesitant before the man playing filly grabbed the hem of his shirt and dragged him down to fall into the grass next to him. An indignant sound coming from the brunette as he rolled up to sit next to Paul, shifting back to lean against the cold metal. Chris still refusing to really look at Paul, but the bassist reached out anyway to grasp one of the percussionist's hands, rolling one of the sore knuckles between his fingers. Taking another drag of cigarettes and blowing the smoke into the air. 

_“Glad you found me,”_ Chris made a small sound in the back of his throat in response, his shoulders relaxing. Breathing out a quiet _‘yeah’._ Tempted to ask the other man what he'd been doing hiding in the maze of storage containers, but it didn't seem like the time. Instead tilting his head back against the cool metal, the light of the sun peeking over and catching his face. He could feel Paul looking at him, cigarette smoke curling over Chris’s cheek when the man leaned closer. Chris’s nose scrunching up in a small smile, tipping his head so he faced Paul, though Chris’s eyes had fallen mostly shut. _“God, you’re beautiful,”_ Heat rising on Chris’s face, Paul’s other hand moving to trace fingers along Chris’s jaw, tilting the percussionist's head up. Their faces less than a few inches apart. The bassist taking another drag of his cigarette before pressing closer until their lips pressed together, Chris letting the smoke from the man’s mouth travel into his own. When the bassist pulled away smiling, the grayish vapor coiled from Chris’s lips. The percussionist still looked almost in a trance, his eyes half-lidded, the sun reflecting off the blues of his irises. The bassist’s head cocked to the side, a soft smile on his face as he watched Chris finally breathe out the rest of the smoke, a lazy grin also on his face. 

_“T-thanks,”_ Paul’s hand running a thumb over Chris’s cheek. 

_“Anytime, Angel,”_ Chris relaxed against the other man’s body, he could almost fall asleep as he rested his head on the other man’s shoulder. Chris’s eyes drifting shut again, breath slowing. Just one small thing nagging at the back of his mind, even if the man didn't answer Chris need to ask. 

“Lately, _y’know, have you--,”_ Chris paused for a second, but Paul’s thumb only continued to caress over his face and his other hand squeezed at Chris’s hand like a reassurance. _“Been okay?”_ He could hear the bassist make a sound in his chest, the man shifting where he sat, something like a sigh following. 

_“Yeah, yeah, ‘m sorry, angel. Jus’ been thinkin’ a lot lately, and jus’ been pretty tired,”_ Chris nodded, a sick feeling rising in his stomach. _“But, ‘s okay, angel, everythin’s fine,”_ Paul let out a strained laugh, _“Probably sleep for two weeks once we get back home, ey?”_ Chris nodded again, shifting closer to the man, grabbing tight to the man’s hand. 

_“You’re pretty,”_ Chris couldn’t help himself, his cheeks glowing a bit red as the bassist chuckled again.

 _“You’re awfully pretty too, angel,”_ A kiss was pressed to Chris’s forehead, _“Everything’ll work out, I promise,”_

  
  
  


The final show was louder and more chaotic than ever. A final roar of a great beast before it lay to rest. The adrenaline-like fire and flames. The after-party was a drunken mess, drugs, booze, groupies, and any manner of things present. Chris could just barely remember fragments of the party. At two different points in the night, he could recall seeing Jim dragged into Mick’s lap, the taller of the two guitarists blushing madly when the other man buried a face in his pale neck and started to whisper drunken filth. Which only stuck out because later he’d also seen Corey drag Jim into a side closet. Chris at that point was too drunk to ask questions and much too high to care. The party's music had been much too loud for his taste, throbbing at the base of his skull. He’d peeked into a side room at one point, spying Joey half making out with some groupie and half ready to lean back over and snort a line off the mirror laid out on the table in front of him. Chris having quickly backed away from the door before he could be summoned into the room. 

There was one interaction from the party that was seared into his head, however. Chris had stumbled down one of the hallways, his head certainly not screwed on straight. A fresh wave of that buzzy non-sober feeling rushing through his veins. Some pill or other tossed down his throat by Sid in lew of the Dj’s yelled words of _“It’s a party man, final days, have some fuckin’ fun!”,_ Which Chris hadn’t argued with. The percussionist only half paying attention as he crashed into someone muffled a half-baked apology and tried to step around the person, only for his shoulder to be grabbed. Chris finally raising his eyes to look at the man in the face, his brain working slowly as he recognized Paul looking down at him. The bassist's face was swimming, like Chris was looking at him through a fishbowl. Something like fear welling up in his chest, before he frantically pushed it back down. _He wasn’t afraid of the man anymore._ Chris smiled, pushing any of his nerves away. The man’s eyes were incredibly dark, Chris staring into them, he could tell something was stirring in them, something that was _not_ the man that had cried out an apology and kissed him and said ‘I love you’. No this was a different man. Chris’s smile faltered for just a second. The rest of the memory was a blur, a vague notion of being shoved into a side room. A tongue down his throat. Skin against skin, hands under his shirt. But beyond that, Chris couldn't tell. It wasn’t bad though, he liked the feeling of the bassist's mouth against his own even in memory. Chris shrugging away the feeling of being violated, _again._ The man said he’d never do it again, so he wouldn’t. The rest of the memories of the party flood back for a brief second. Too bright lights and neon flashing colors. A blur of faces and names. Chris couldn’t even tell if he’d imagined close to all of it. And with the way everyone had been drinking and boozing to their heart's content, it didn’t seem like he’d get an answer. 

Chris couldn’t remember how he’d gotten onto the bus, a horrendous hangover keeping isolated and staved away in his bunk lest he would most likely throw up the little contents of his stomach. The man had ended up sleeping over halfway through the long drive back to their home state, fairly certain he was still drunk from the night before. Hell, he wasn't even sure he still had all ten fingers. But if he wasn’t still in possession of all ten digits, no one would help him drive his ass all the way back to wherever the hell they’d been and find it in the mess left over by their end of tour fest. The familiar rows of corn and field out the window that Chris had caught a glimpse of when he was forced to drag himself out of the bed to go to the bathroom, signaling to his still only half online brain that they were indeed at least back in their great home state. And when the buses had finally stopped, there was something like a collective sigh out of all of them. Back home to the quiet boring paradise that was Des Moine, Iowa. _Nothing but roller rinks and graveyards._

  
  


Chris had actually been in a damn good mood, having spent the night at Jim’s house, only able to spend a few days home alone at his own home before he got bored of washing everything, putting it all away, and organizing the mass of pens he’d collected. Eventually hesitantly picking up his phone to message the guitarist. The two of them had watched countless movies together while sitting sprawled over a couch, beer, and snacks in their hands. Chris making snippy commentary while Jim chuckled and strummed at a guitar, occasionally mimicking as best he could the soundtracks of the various films. The two of them ending up passing out late into the night, the percussionist not seeing the texts that buzzed away on his phone, the thing dying before any calls could actually come through. To be fair it’s not as if Chris hadn’t tried to unsuccessfully reach out to the bassist when they’d gotten back to Des Moine, giving up after only receiving a few dry text messages back. Chris couldn’t bring himself to be mad, just worried. Though he steadied himself with the memory of the man saying everything was fine. The assist was probably just sleeping and taking a break from everything. _It only hurt a little bit._

The old car, interior covered in a smattering of old band stickers with an accent of cigarettes, pulled into the parking lot of the studio, Chris stumbling out and yawning; pulling his hoodie strings tight around his head to combat the chilly wind spiking the Iowan morning. The percussionist gave a lazy smile to the other man, who was sparking up a cigarette, hands shoved deep in his pockets, blowing smoke out into the cool air as he smiled back at Chris. 

“Probably shouldn’t’ve stayed up so late, huh,” The percussionist yawning again in response and shaking his head, face still in an expression of sleepy optimism,

 _“Eh,_ was fun, plus you finally made we watch those dumb fuckin’ space movies,” 

“They are not _dumb!”_

“Sure, _sure,”_ Chris snickering as he put on a garbled impression, _“Jim, train with the force you must! Otherwise die will you!”_

“Fuck you,” The percussionist only continuing this impersonation, 

_“Fuck you too!”_ Jim snorting and taking a drag of his cigarette, dropping the half-smoked thing on the ground and grinding it down into the cracked concrete of the parking lot with the heel of his shoe. Chris finally abandoning his poor impression, giggling as he watched Jim move around to the back of his car and retrieve his guitar case.

“C’mon you massive freakin’ nerd,” The impression coming back, _“Go we must!”_ Jim sighing, not able to stop the smile from worming its way back on his face, even as he mumbled _“ ‘m not a nerd, “_ under his breath as he followed the percussionist into the studio. 

The recording studio was more of a large warehouse than anything else, a few sound booths scattered around the edges of the biggest room. Hallways branching off the room leading to storage rooms, bathrooms, and what Chris could only describe as a room filled with nothing but stacked file cabinets overflowing with paper, looking like something out of an office worker's nightmare. He and Jim headed towards the main room to join their bandmates. Waving a _‘hello and good morning’_ to Craig, who was already sitting in the corner of the room and fiddling with his keyboard. Honestly, Chris wouldn’t have noticed him if not for the noise the keyboard made. 

Drums had already been set up in the main room, Chris finding a pair of drumsticks that were in working condition, shoving them in his pocket before jumping up onto his drum set up and laying across them, eyes flicking closed. 

“I still do not understand how that’s comfortable,” A blue eye blinking open to the stare at Jim, who was setting up his equipment and plugging in various wires.

 _“What can I say,_ I'm special,” Jim snorted at the response, the percussionist closing his eyes again and humming, 

_“Sure,”_ Chris clicked his tongue, 

“Hey Craig, do y’know if ‘s jus’ us today?” The sampler glancing up from his keyboard at the percussionist, exhaling through his nose, 

_“Just us,”_

_“Great,_ that means nobody can stop Corey from screaming as loud as possible,” Chris’s voice dripped with mock enthusiasm, Craig snorting and going back to his keyboard. 

_“Corey would do that anyway,”_ Chris making a sound of agreeance, and clicking his fingers in the sampler's direction. Jim snorting, turning some jobs on an amp, and strumming a few strings so this guitar. All their heads swiveling to look at one of the doors leading into from the parking lot, a loud shout sounding from behind it, Jim muttering, 

_“Speak’a the devil,”_

Most of the band had settled into the room. It really wasn’t going to be an all-out practice, more of a meeting, like a bring down after the tour. Chris still lounging on his drums and trying to ignore Corey and Sid getting into a screaming match about who knows what, the men changed topics faster than a middle schooler on Adderall. Chris’s mind wandering, tempted to check his phone as if the battery would suddenly spring back to life. He had waited for a particular bassist to amble into the recording studio even long after the allotted time everyone was supposed to arrive. Chris chewing on the interview of his cheek more than normal as Shawn made some vague speech about music, and the importance of working hard; the clown sounded like an over-enthusiastic music teacher sometimes. The thoughts inside Chris’s head wandered again. He did know Shawn got some vague text from the bassist that he would be busy for a few days and not too worry. Which _didn’t_ help Chris’s anxiety at all. The percussionist sighing as he recalled what the bassist had said again, rubbing a hand over his eyes. _He missed the man more than anything._

 _‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine. He’s just busy or tired or something. . .’_ Something in the back of Chris’s mind somehow doubted that. Worry bloomed in his chest. Drowning out all other sounds in the room as he dated with himself, finally sighing again. He _needed_ to see the man again. 

_‘Can’t tell anyone though,’_ Chris felt a bit guilty at that, thinking of Jim. The guitarist would worry too much if he did tell him. Hell, he’d still worried even after Chris had told him about Paul, about how everything was fine now. About how the bassist had fucking _cried._ Chris felt guilt wash over him, it hurt to even think about how Paul had looked with tears running down his cheeks. 

Even after everything if there was one thing the tall guitarist was, it was begrudgingly worry-filled with a good memory. A sigh coming from Chris as he squeezed his eyes shut tighter in thought. 

_‘Just go see if he’s alive, then you can get home, no problem,’_ Chris muttering _“Yeah, yeah, that’ll work,”_ to himself before his eyes cracked open, sitting up to look around the room. Sid and Corey had been dragged off each other, the Dj cackling like a mad dog and Corey looking like he wanted to wring the man’s throat. So they were acting just about normal. 

Chris’s ears perked up when he heard someone overdramatically clear their throat, turning to see Shawn; who looked like he was trying to round everyone up so they could actually start talking about something actually relevant. _Unfortunately still missing their bass player._

He’d forgotten how quiet Iowa was. Like that crushing kind of silence, like standing in the middle of an empty field with no one else around and the sky big and out all out in front of you. _Hell,_ the buzz of the street lights even seemed noisy compared to the run-down old pavement streets around them. Muted concrete, quiet streets, empty field _and--_

Chris shook his head, letting out a snort of amusement. That was enough existential ponderings for him tonight. Leaning back against the brick wall of the studio, waiting for Jim. The man insisted on driving Chris at least a little way closer to the actual city, as the percussionist had just planned on walking all the way to Paul’s house, which in hindsight would have probably been a terrible decision. The door of the recording studio was pushed open, Jim waving at Chris as he stumbled out. Chris cocking an eyebrow as he saw Corey being dragged along by the guitarist. The singer looked like he’d just lost an argument, or was dragged away from one. Chris watched with amusement as he’d only left to go stand outside a few minutes prior and the singer didn’t seem so riled up then, but then again the man was like a bomb with an incredibly short fuse and a very loud voice. Jim hissed something to the singer as he escorted the man to the beat up old car, Chris following in the pair's footsteps. Climbing into the back seat along with Corey as the front seat had been taken up by various equipment Jim had stowed away in the car at some point earlier in the day.

The guitarist finally climbed in the driver seat and started the rusty engine, glancing in the back seat to look at the two men. Corey had his arms crossed like a little kid who’d been denied ice cream and Chris was staring out the window, though he looked up to smile at Jim; who sighed and smiled back. As the guitarist turned back to actually start to drive, despite all the sounds of the protesting engine, Chris glanced over at Corey, vague curiosity in his eyes. 

_“What made you so angry?”_ Corey’s eye flashed, his mouth opening to snap out a reply when Jim cut him off. 

“He lost a bet with Joey, and now he has to show up to next practice in a fairy costume.” Corey’s wrath redirected at the guitarist, who was chuckling. Chris snorting and trying to hold in laughter. The mood of the car lightened a bit, even as Corey scowled and made an indignant noise, grumbling _‘I could have won,’_ to himself. Jim chuckling harder and trying not to actively swerve off the road. 

“You can _not_ do the splits,” 

_“Fuck you,”_ The singer delivering a kick to the back of Jim’s seat, causing the car to ver to the left. Causing all of them to have a bit of a panic attack before Jim could right the car, glaring at Corey through the rearview mirror as Chris wheezed like his life depended on it. Luckily for them, the road was empty of all other cars at the moment. The annoyance in the guitarist melted away as he saw Corey now grinning at his attempted murder of the three of them. Chris giggling, a lopsided smile on his face, 

“When’s next practice anyway?” 

_“Eh,”_ Jim shrugged, “Shawn said something about takin’ a bit of a break, y’know, to _‘reinvigorate the creative spirit’_ ,” The guitarist lifting his hands off the wheel to make air quote around the last part of the sentence, luckily the car staying relatively on track by the time the wheel was back in his grasp. Chris rolled his eyes at the thought of the clown’s philosophical ramblings. Corey piping up with a groan,

“If he's gonna bring in those horse heads for _‘creative inspiration’_ again,” The singer wrinkling his nose, “ _Those things fuckin’ rank,”_

“Let’s hope, you can dance around them in your tutu and fairy wings like a sick reimagining of the nutcracker,” 

_“Oh, fuck you, Dicknose,”_ Chris snickered as Corey flipped him off from the other side of the car. The car falling into a comfortable silence, Jim at some point turning on the radio which buzzed unenthusiastically to life after a few moments of fiddling with the buttons and knobs, half of which had fallen out to leave exposed wiring.

The glass of the window was cold against Chris’s forehead, his eyes scanning the outside, glimpses of buildings lining the edge of the road, old and new. A vague memory of being a kid and climbing through some abandoned building or other, then running like hell from the cops. He knew they were getting close to the area of his own house, he could just fake wanting to walk home. _That wasn't too suspicious._

“Hey, Jimmy,” Chris got a grunt from the driver's seat as a response. “Y’think you could drop me off around here, wanted to stretch my legs,” He could see Jim raising an eyebrow in the rearview mirror but the man didn’t question him. The car rumbling to a stop on the side of a quiet street, no one was out at this hour except the occasional tweaker or rebellious group of teens. Chris grunted as he climbed out of the car, double-checking that his keys and wallet were still in his pockets as well as his yet-to-be-charged phone. Looking up to see Jim giving him a nervous smile, Chris felt a bit of guilt in his chest. He wasn’t _directly_ lying to the man, but his stomach still roiled. 

“I hope you two have fun,” Chris tried to settle his own nerves by poking fun at the fact Jim had still not really given a reason as to why Corey had been in the car, _though Chris could guess._ Jim’s smile going from nervous to sheepish while Corey snickered. 

_“Yeah,_ we will,” Corey playfully kicked at Jim’s seat again, “Isn’t that right, Peaches?” The guitarist sighed, waving to Chris who was grinning. The percussionist wishing the pair goodbye before shutting the car door, snorting to himself as he heard Jim make a high pitched squeaking sound, which indicated Corey had probably done something stupid. Chris shouting a final farewell as the car pulled away, the engine rumbling, a hand jutting out the driver side window to wave goodnight to him as the one-head-lighted vehicle sputtered away. The street quiet again, street lights humming at inconsistent intervals as Chris ambled down the sidewalk, hand shoved in his pockets, regretting not grabbing a coat or something. He knew the general area well enough, it wasn't too long of a walk to his own house but it would take a bit longer to get to Paul’s. Debating hopping on a midnight bus to quicken the trip. 

His feet hurt. The busses, as he’d found out, weren’t running this late, and rather than stumble back to his own home and drive to Paul’s house in the morning like a normal dignified human being would, he simply kept walking. Hand shoved deeper in his pockets. Not even sure if the bassist was home, Hell, the man could be in Chicago for all Chris knew. And his phone dead in his back pocket and lack of any change to use a nonexistent phonebooth wasn't helping much as he shuffled along. Glancing up to see a tilted street sign that gave him a bit of hope. The road didn’t have any street lamps, almost pitch dark and as quiet as a church on Thursday. The houses not much better, a few windows lit up with uninviting lights with shadows moving inside. Chris trudging down the street until he saw a familiar tree in a front yard, his pace quickening as he approached. He _knew_ that tree. The familiar chipped blue paint and rickety old stairs. Chris looked up to see one of the upstairs windows lit with a dim flickering light. Carefully walking through the front yard and up the porch, skipping the second step as it was about a cat-step away from collapsing. 

The door to Paul’s house was sturdy. Chris staring at it, part of him threatening to turn his body around, march off the porch and call a cab-- _ah._ Nevermind. He’d have to walk all the way home, wouldn’t he? Starting to even further regret not charging his phone as he stood in front of what now seemed like the most intimidating door in the history of doors. Taking what must have been four years to some up the will power to inch closer and raise his fist to knock. Chris immediately regretted his decision when the wood under his knuckles rang with the knocking and he could hear something in the house move. Or maybe it was his imagination. Chris froze in place, subconscious begging that Paul would open the door and would just stop Chris’s suffering, or at least tell the percussionist to fuck off so Chris had an excuse to drag his tired ass back home. 

The creek of floorboards from just inside the door jolted Chris’s mind back into a muted state of fight or flight. The clicking and metallic sound of locks being unhinged. Chris was shivering, both from the cold and nerves as the door was pulled open just the tiniest bit. The sliver of light casting out onto the porch quickly swallowed up by shadow again as the man on the other side of the door shifted to look out at Chris. The moment of tension when their eyes met broken when Paul let out a breath and the door shut. Chris nearly stumbling back off the porch at the perceived rejection, then the door opened again after the last chain was unhooked. This time swinging wide to let more of the dim light of the house spill out onto the porch. Illuminating Chris’s pale sweaty face. The percussionist suddenly feeling much more stupid than he had before, Paul looking at him like he was seeing a ghost. 

_“Hi,”_ Paul’s shoulder seemed to tighten at Chris’s mutter greeting. The percussionist debated scrambling away with his tail between his legs before the man could even respond. Paul’s eyes softened, though there was something a little bit off in the man’s gaze, though Chris ignored it as the man stepped forward. Getting much closer to Chris, who was only shivering harder as he looked at the floor. 

_“Hi, Chris,”_ The percussionist dared to glance up, shifting on his feet only to be reminded of how sore his legs were, letting out a quiet exhale. Paul’s eyebrows raised a bit as he looked past Chris and onto the street where no new cars were parked. A look of slight worry and confusion on the man’s face; gesturing for Chris to come in. The percussionist silently following the bassist's wishes, stumbling through the doorway while Paul relocked the door. An awkward tension welling between the two of them. Chris couldn’t help but see the guilt they lingered just behind the worry in the bassist’s eyes. Chris hated it. Despite what had happened, the percussionist had forgiven the man. Even if it probably was a bad choice, maybe, probably a terrible decision but Chris didn’t care. He _couldn’t_ care. 

The inside of the house was as cozy as ever. A scratchy paint job that had been done by Paul and a few other guys when he’d first moved in to cover up the horrendous green color that had coated the walls before. A thick carpet covering part of the floor that led into the living room off to the left. Chris shifting awkwardly on his heels, not sure where to go. He remembered a few details of the house, they’d had band practices in the man’s basement more times than he could count. 

Chris hadn’t noticed but his arms had moved to hug around himself, not to mention the fact he couldn’t feel his fingers; body still half-frozen from the cold night outside that he’d misguidedly wandered through. The percussionist stared at his shoes, jolting in surprise when a hand was laid on his shoulder. Looking up to see Paul again, the worry in the dark eyes only grew when he felt how cold Chris’s skin was. The bassist's hand moved to cradle the side of the brunette’s face, brushing some of the man’s hair out of the way. The hair having fallen out of the sloppy ponytail Chris had gathered it up in sometime earlier in the day. A shaky breath came from Chris as he settled into the warm hand on the side of his face; arms loosening around himself. 

_“Did you walk all the way here. . .?”_ Chris shifted, embarrassed like he was being scolded for something. 

“I- _um,_ Jimmy gave me a ride part’a the way,” The percussionist quickly elaborating as he felt the man’s eyes trace over his downturned face, “Fr-from practice,” He could hear Paul make a sighing sound. 

“That’s still a long way, angel, you could have called me,” Chris got a little red in the face as he nodded sheepishly, mumbling _‘Phone’s dead,’_ under his breath, eyes still on the floor as his face was tilted up by the man’s hand, a warm thumb rubbing across his cheekbone. _“You cold?”_ Chris nodded again, his numb fingertips pressing into the skin of his arms. The warm hand on Chris’s face leaving to trail down his neck, thumb now tracing his jaw and up under his ear. Chris now practically supported by nothing but the man’s hand, his arms falling and hanging limply at his sides. _“You really are like fuckin’ ice,”_ A soft sound came from the back of Chris’s throat. The man almost whimpering when the warm touches left him, only a moment later for the large hand to grab one of his. Fingers interlaced with the ice-cold ones, Chris immediately feeling a bit warmer as his hand was squeezed in a comforting way. _“C’mon,”_ Paul tugged at Chris's hand to get the man to follow him, Chris stumbling on his next to frost-bitten feet as he was led upstairs. 

The percussionist glanced around the upstairs, only a hallway, some scattered household items, and a few closed doors greeting him, one at the far end of the hallway proper half-open in a way where one could see just a little bit into the room. The hand in his beckoning him forward again as Paul guided the both of them to a door, pushing it open. The door leading into a decently sized bathroom, Chris a bit confused but not protesting as he was led inside; brain clearly too smothered by tiredness and cold to actually function properly. He’d never been in the bathroom before, only the one downstairs. A few typical amenities placed haphazardly on the counter, which Paul had guided him to lean against, the rest of the bathroom relatively clean. _Certainly not the worst bathroom Chris had ever been in._

The shower was starting up, the sound grabbing Chris’s attention. Paul pulled open the glass door of the shower as he adjusted the temperature of the water to be something probably warmer than Chris’s current body temperature before turning back to the other man. Who was staring at the tiled floor, breath trembling as his hands grasped at the counter he was leaning against. Mind rushing as a pair of hands cupped his face, steadying him. Chris’s gaze flicking up to look at Paul, who was looking down at him with pain in his eyes. Suddenly guilt was welling in the percussionist’s gut, it wasn't Paul’s fault that Chris couldn’t let go of things. _It wasn't his fault._ Chris taking a deep unsteady breath, trying to fight the back of his mind which was screaming at him. The feeling of cold tiles at his back melting away as Paul’s thumbs pet over his cheeks, the bassist making a sad humming sound in the back of his throat. Chris letting out another trembling breath, grabbing one of Paul’s wrists. The bassist almost pulled away, though Chris didn’t let him and only held the man’s hand in place, his own fingers still cold and numb against the other man’s skin. 

_“ ’s okay,”_ Chris sniffed, _“Everything’s okay,”_ The bassist was still looking at Chris like the man was a wounded puppy that Paul was trying to fix, even if the damage was his fault. The hand on Paul’s wrist joined by a second on the opposite, the percussionist hand sliding up to cover the warm set pressed to his face. Sniffing again as his eyes blinked closed, that awful buzzing feeling he got right behind his nose before tears would start welling up drawing his attention as he tried to suppress it. A soft pair of lips kissing his cold forehead, Chris letting out what could have been a pathetic whimpering sound if it actually had managed to pass from his mouth, the percussionist biting back the sound.

The two of them stayed like that until Chris finally pulled away, the cold of his body finally a little too much for him, despite the temperature of the room. The shower having started to billow clouds of steam, the logical part of Chris wanting to hop in immediately. Paul’s hand dropped from Chris’s face, one of them grabbing the percussionist's fingers and running a thumb over the knuckles, which were still covered in a layer of peeling scar tissue from the tour. Honestly, it was a surprise any of them still had hands judging by the amount of shit they all punched when out on the road. 

“You hope in the shower before we run out of hot water, Okay?” Chris made a sound of agreement in the back of his throat, moving his hand out of Paul's grip to grab at his own shirt. Starting to strip the thing off as Paul stepped back, the man watching Chris with hesitation. The bassist muttering _“I’ll be back in a sec,”_ As he furthered himself from Chris, hand on the bathroom doorknob. The percussionist not protesting, only nodding as he pulled his shirt over his head, badly folding it and setting it on the counter. The man’s blue eyes back on the floor as he heard Paul open the bathroom door, only for it to click shut again a second later. Chris left alone. The brunette took in a breath of steam thickened air before starting to remove the rest of his clothes, kicking off his shoes. Regardless of how cold he still felt, there was a twinge of warmth in his chest. At least he knew Paul was alive, even if he hadn’t really got an explanation as to why the man had been gone for days. _He abandoned you._ Chris shook his head. _No, no he didn’t. And he wouldn’t._

The water was hot against his skin. Face tilted down, the shower spraying over the back of his head. Unfortunately, he was no longer standing, realizing his legs couldn’t take much more of that unless he wanted to slip and crack his head on the porcelain of the tub. Sitting in the tub, legs sprawled in front of him. Water soaking through his hair which was sticking in strings to his face and neck. Chris intently staring at the grot pattern between the tiles of the wall as the water gradually warmed his body back up to a normal temperature. He had to admit the warm water felt wonderful, especially on the sore muscles of his back, which he’d barely noticed until after practice had finished but now ached just like his feet were. Water pooling up between his legs as he sat on the floor of the bath, eyes closed, and just trying to stay awake. He could very well fall asleep right there, but he didn’t want more stiff muscles in the morning. 

A soft knock echoed from the door. Chris barely looking up from the floor of the bath as he made a noise that could have been mistaken for a near-dead animal. The door opening just enough for Paul to slip inside, the man looking worriedly at Chris, setting a pair of clothes on the counter. 

_“You okay?”_ Chris made another tired sound, lifting his head, some of the wet brunette hair sticking to his face; too tired to brush it away. Paul crouched down beside the man, pushing the glass door of the shower out of the way, even as now lukewarm spray of water misted out of the confines of the shower. The bassist’s hand snaked inside the shower to brush the wet strands of hair out of Chris’s face. Then it cupped a cheek, tilting the percussionist’s head towards him. Chris’s eyes sleepily blinking at him. The sleeve of Paul’s t-shirt was getting soaked in the water of the shower, but he didn’t retract it, instead petting fingers over Chris’s sleepy face. _“We should get you to bed, huh?”_ Some of the lukewarm water of the shower dripped off Chris’s nose as he tried to give another nod, muttering a weak _‘yeah’_ under his breath. The shower was shut off, Chris shivering as the water stopped pouring over him. Paul standing to get a towel off the rack and wrap it around the other man’s shoulders. Chris grabbing the corners of the towel and wrapping it even closer to his body. 

The door of the bathroom opened and let steam billow out into the hallway. Chris whimpered as the cold of the rest of the house washed over him, only enhanced by how used his body had gotten to the warm water of the shower. The percussionist nuzzling his head closer to Paul’s shoulder, the man’s arms tightening around him, Chris always had loved that Paul could carry him; especially now when he could barely get on his feet again. The bassist carried him towards the door at the end of the hallway, pushing the door open with foot and making sure not to hit Chris's legs on the doorway. 

The room was only lit by a lamp on the side table of the bed resting across the room, though the room as a whole was incredibly cozy anyway, much warmer than the hallway. The shadow cast over the walls familiar more than scary. It was a room clearly lived in, not exactly clean, but not overly dirty. Chris only had the energy left in him to study a dresser he could see out of the corner of his eyes, on top of said dresser there was a small pot with a cactus, or succulent, or something, he couldn’t really remember the plant breed’s he’d learned in high school. Chris made a sound in the back of his throat when he was gently set down on the bed covered in mismatched blankets and pillows. More of a nest of soft fabrics than an actual bed.

Chris’s head laid against one of the pillows, the percussionist relaxing into the soft mattress. A blush rising on the man’s face when the towel was pulled out from around him, used to help delicately whip off some of the remaining water that clung to his hair. A curl of hair sticking to his cheek when the towel finally moved away, Chris whimpering and trying to turn onto his side. A warm hand touching just above his hip bone, trailing along the lukewarm skin of his side, making a buzzing tingle up his spine. The hand tracing up the line of his abdomen, and then splayed out over his belly, Chris curling around the hand. The man above him had leaned down, his nose brushing against Chris’s cheek, a soft kiss to the percussionist cheekbone. Then the hand moved, grazing fingers over his side, and then was gone. A thick blanket pulled over Chris’s body, the warmth engulfing him. Another sleepy sound from Chris as the weight of the fabric pushed him towards unconsciousness. 

_“Sleep well, angel,”_

When he did wake up, there was no way to tell if it was night or day. The bedside table still lit only by the one lamp, heavy curtains had been pulled over the windows. Chris rolling over, disappointed to find no one next to him in the bed, it felt like the room dropped a few degrees. The percussionist clutched one of the pillows close to his chest, nuzzling his face against it. He could tell just by moving his legs even a little bit that they were still sore, but he was pretty sure he could still walk. Chris humming into the fabric of the pillow, his eyes blinking closed. There really was no reason to be awake anyway. 

Chris was right on the cusp of falling back asleep when the door of the room creaked open, soft footsteps padding across the floor towards the bed. The bed dipping under the weight of someone sitting down, Chris not opening his eyes, relaxing into the mattress. He could feel the presents of the other man, a warm hand brushing some of the hair out of his face. 

_“You awake, baby?”_ The low rumbling of the man’s voice running up Chris’s spine. The percussionist nodded sleepily, yawning against the fabric of the pillow, and then snuggling his face against it again. The man above him made a soft sound in his throat, petting knuckles across Chris’s hair, which was slightly tangled at the ends, but nonetheless still clean from the shower last night. Chris shifting on the bed again, he could smell what seemed like toast, his stomach making a gurgling sound. _“C’mon sit up,”_ Only part of him protested when he dragged himself further up the bed, his back haphazardly pressed to the wall, blankets still around him, eyes blinking sleepily. Completely forgetting he was still buck naked, his skin pale in the light of the room. Paul watched him with a smile on his face, a plate with a few pieces of toast and some sliced apple. A loud gurgling of Chris’s stomach got the bassist to hum out a laugh, making sure Chris was sitting fully upright and not going to fall over before he set the plate in the man's lap. 

The smell of toast prompted Chris to actually move his hand to grab a piece, munching on a corner while still trying to blink the sleep out of his eyes. Still chewing slowly on a bite of the toast when one of the bassist's hands reached out to caress the side of his face, Chris leaning into the touch, almost forgetting to chew his food,

 _“Hi,”_ Paul smiled again, the rings in his lip reflecting some of the low light of the room. 

_“Hi, angel,”_ Chris’s face got a little flushed, smiling sheepishly and taking another bite of toast. The hand on his face cheeking his cupping and running a thumb over his cheekbone, a familiar feeling of security rising in Chris’s chest. He’d never even been in this room before and yet it felt like home, especially with Paul there with him. 

“I- _umm,”_ Chris looked up at the bassist's face, the man was chewing on his lip, _“Nevermind,”_ The percussionist’s eyebrow knit together, reaching up a free hand to grab the man’s wrist, running his thumb over the skin like he was trying to comfort the man. The dark eyes looked away from Chris, who tried to shift closer to the man, tilting his head and moving his own hand to mirror the hand on his face, interlacing their fingers. 

_“Yeah?”_ The dark eyes now locked on something across the room that Chris couldn’t see, the bassist’s face a mask of nerves, eyebrow kit together. Finally, the bassist looked back at Chris, resolution in his expression. 

“I just- _Y’know,”_ Chris tilted his head against the hand still on his face, blinking large blue eyes at the other man. _“Do you trust me, Chris?”_ The percussionist was nodding before he realized it, _He did._ Paul looked like that was simultaneously the best and worst response he could have gotten, the bassist letting out a sigh and nodding back, his mouth going into a nervous smile. _“Good, good. Okay,”_ The dark-haired man leaning forward and placing a kiss on Chris’s forehead, muttering something. Nervous curiosity almost getting the best of Chris, on the verge of asking what was happening, but instead relaxing back to lean against the wall again. His free hand holding an apple slice that he’d picked off the plate, his gaze still on Paul. Who, much to Chris’s disappointment pulled his hand away from the brunette's face. The bassist stood off the bed, though his fingers were intertwined with the percussionist's. _“I’ll be back soon, okay?”_ The hand around Chris’s squeezed, _“Please finish your food,”_ Chris made an agreeing sound in the back of his throat, though his eyes got a bit sad when the man’s hand left him, the bassist quickly making his way back across the room. Before the door shut behind him, the man looked back to smile at Chris, mouthing the words _‘I love you’._ Then the door clicked closed. And Chris was left to chew absentmindedly at the slice of apple, blue eyes unfocused as thoughts, like curious animals, paraded around his head. 

The last of the apple was sticking to his tongue, his eyes darting around in search of entertainment. He _could_ fall back asleep but at the moment he didn’t much want to. There weren’t any clocks in the room, as he’d discovered after looking around as best he could from his vantage point on the bed, and unless the man had charged and given him back his phone there was no way the thing wasn't still as dead as a doornail in his pants pocket somewhere or other. The percussionist studied the scattered shadows of things around the room, taking wild guesses at what they were while combing fingers through his hair in a vain effort to untangle the knots. If he really paid attention, he could pick out the musk of the bassist in the room, Chris almost blushing when he realized that he could identify the man just by his smell. A dusty heated smell, Chris now wishing even harder that the man would come back, so he could bury his face in the crux of the bassist's neck and breathe him in again. Now the brunette’s cheeks were shaded in a light flush, the low light of the room reflected in his eyes. Chris debated whether or not he had enough time to shove a hand down his pants and rub on out while burying his face into the musky pillows that smelled like the bassist. 

The answer an unfortunate and definitive ‘no’ when his ear finally perked up to the sound of muted footsteps outside of the door. Though one of Chris’s hands had unwittingly slid between his legs at its own volition, the naked skin of his inner thighs soft under his fingers. Chris’s eyes went wide, a small sound from his throat, pulling his hand away and tugging up the blankets even more to cover himself as the door and pushed open. The bassist peaking into the room, dark eyes roaming over Chris as he stepped inside. Chris, who was still slightly embarrassed, _for what appeared to be no reason,_ looked away. The mattress of the bed dipping with the other man’s weight again. Chris’s mouth suddenly went a bit dry when he managed to tear his eyes away from the wall and spy the bottle of water the man was holding, he hadn’t really realized how thirsty he was. Luckily for him, the man handed over the bottle immediately, Chris making a sound of thanks and unscrewing the cap. The cool water tasted rushing down his throat, probably chugging almost half the bottle before stopping. Chris raised a hand to wipe away a trickle of water that had escaped down his chin. The drink easing the dryness in his mouth. The bottle set down next to him. 

The blue eyes darting up to look at Paul’s face, the man still looked apprehensive about something, though it was brushed away as soon as his own gaze met Chris’s. The bassist’s hand, which was stuffed inside his jean’s pocket, held a small plastic baggie between its fingers. The thing still in the center of a heated internal debate he’d been having for multiple days. Chris was still staring at him like a curious puppy, his hand reaching out to brush fingers with Paul’s hand that was resting on the bed. The blankets around the percussionist’s waist drifted down a bit as the man shifted so he could sit more upright. Paul’s stomach doing a small summersault when he just briefly glanced at the lines and curves of Chris’s abdomen. He desperately wanted to dig his fingers into the percussionist's soft skin. The hand on the bed that Chris had grabbed moving to interweave their fingers. A small smile pulling at the corner of the percussionist's lips. 

_“Hi,”_ He was close to parodying himself from earlier, but Chris couldn’t think of much else to say. His hand squeezing around Paul’s. The bassist gave him a small grin, the hand inside his jeans pocket clutching the small baggie in his palm. Finally making his decision, removing his hand from the pocket and hesitantly holding it beside him on the bed. Chris’s eyes mostly still focused on the bassist's face, though his eyes did flick over to register the movement. The percussionist's eyebrows briefly twitching as if to express curiosity, head tilting just a bit to the side. _Which was adorable._

The both of them almost wholly unsure on how to continue. Paul, finally the first one to make a move, his hand turned face up so the small semi-translucent baggie rested in the center of his large palm. Chris’s eyes narrowing, his other hand hesitantly moving forward closer to the offering. Paul moved his hand forward so Chris’s shaking fingers could cautiously grab the small baggie. The percussionist stared at it, glancing up at Paul, who shifted awkwardly, looking away. 

_“You don’t have to, I just-- thought that, y’know maybe it could be nice-- for you,”_ The bassist damn near stumbling over his words like a nervous high schooler asking his crush out to the dance. _“I know it’ll make you feel g-good, and, y’know--,”_ Though Chris was only half listening as he studied the contents of the baggie. A few pills of various shapes, nothing more. his stomach filling with a strange mix of affection and nerves. _The man just wanted to give him a good time. That’s all._ Chris’s lips in a small smile, his eyes flicking back to meet Paul’s unsure gaze. _“You don’t hav--”_

 _“I want to,”_ Chris’s voice was quiet but determined, squeezing the bassist's hand before letting go in order to open the small baggie, dumping the assortment of pills out into his hand, some of the texture chalky against his palm. Paul was still looking at him timidly, grabbing the water bottle next to Chris and unscrewing the lib as the percussionist raised a hand to his mouth and tossed the pills into the back of his throat. The bottle of water handed over to him to help wash the things down, then set on the small bedside table. Chris gave Paul a small eyes-half-lidded smile, he _did_ trust the man. Despite everything. That potential feeling of anxiety that was trying to spill over him lessened and nearly disappeared entirely when Paul moved closer, his hand cradling Chris’s face. The bassist's eyes locked on to Chris’s own, searching for something, and apparently not finding it as his brows eased. Leaning forward to envelop Chris’s mouth in a kiss. The percussionist humming into it and shifting closer. Paul’s head tilting, his hands on Chris’s face half tangled in the percussionist's hair. Though they were forced to pull away apart to actually breathe in a gasp of air. Chris’s eyes still half-lidded as he looked at Paul, he wanted the man to hold him. 

And just as if the bassist could indeed really read his mind, the man crawled up onto the bed further, Chris moving to the side and down so his head could rest on the pillows next to the bassist, the blankets tangled around his waist. Chris’s back to the wall and arms secure around the other man. Paul’s own arms holding the other man close, running a thumb over the hills and valleys of his back, tracing over the subtle outline of ribs under the skin. The percussionist's face nuzzling into Paul’s neck, his breath like the light tickling of feathers against the dark-haired man’s skin. The arms looped around Paul’s waist, moving to worm fingers under the bassist's shirt, sluggishly grazing along the honey skin, nails just barely grazing across it. Working the fabric hiding the skin up a little further and Chris pushed in up in lew of touching more of the man’s warm flesh, it felt wonderful. Hell if Chris knew when the pills would kick in, but it had barely even been ten minutes and reality was already feeling warm and fuzzy. But then again, that may have just been a side effect of being cuddled in the arms of Paul, the bassist radiating a buzzing warm feeling that twisted Chris’s heart like a vice. 

  
  


Time, at the moment, was slipping through Chris’s fingers like water through a strainer. He wasn't even sure how long it had been, but he’d been cuddling in Paul’s arms the whole time, the man’s hands having caressed all over his back and up into his silky hair. Chris's eyes just a small bit open, though he wasn't really seeing anything. The tips of his fingers felt far away, buzzing like his brain had been suddenly rewired. Chris let out a soft exhale against Paul’s skin, his hand resting in the curve of the man’s waist. At the moment he would have killed to make this moment last forever. 

_“Feel good, Angel?”_ The bassist's voice sounded more rumbly and lower than normal, Chris letting out a small noise from his throat, breath hitching and sluggish. _“I’ll take that as a yes,”_ Another soft sound coming from the percussionist, who was drifting a little by little more into the warmth of the drug fuel haze of his brain. Chris now entirely sure how but he ended up face to face with Paul, both their head resting against the pillow. A stupid smile tugging at Chris’s lips, the percussionist not able to hold back a small giggle, a flush high on his cheeks, glassy Azul-blue eyes loosely focused on the other man. Chris’s voice loose and airy, 

_“Hi,”_ The percussionist still grinning dumbly, one of his hands rising to pet the side of the bassist's face. The flushy honey color of the bassist skin was swirling before Chris’s eyes. The color extra glossy and pretty as Chris slid his finger carefully over the man’s cheek. The stupid grin staying on the percussionist's face as he trailed his fingers over to fiddle with the silvery hoops through the other man’s ear. Chris was intently staring at the man’s lips at the moment, his eyes zeroing in on them, breathing subtle and slow. Then the bassist shifted forward, Chris barely able to process the movement before a pair of lips were back against his own, _where they belonged_ , and a sugary feeling jolted through him. The blankets tangled around his naked body suddenly felt much too hot and uncomfortable. Chris groaned into Paul’s mouth, his hands caught around the bassist's ears, thumbs brushing against the silver rings as his finger ran through the hair. Which felt wonderfully silky and soft between his digits. A tingly feeling in Chris’s lips when the other man pulled away. Chris almost on the verge of begging the man to kiss him again when one of the large hands slid up his side, along his ribs, and up, catching a pierced nipple between its fingers and just barely pulling at the ring through it. 

Chris jolting and squirming, the first shock of real stimulation flashing through his body. The nipple gently massaged between the pads of Paul’s fingers, the golden metal ring through it exaggerating the feeling just as the drugs coursing through Chris’s veins were. The percussionist’s breath spent on little moans as nails grazed over his nipple. The brunette muttering useless curses under his breath, head tilted against the pillow. He already felt like he was on cloud nine, and if he guessed correctly, the bassist hadn’t even gotten started yet. The feeling of the man’s other man trailing down his back, got Chris to almost hold his breath. The hand moving down his spine, and gently squeeing at one of his asscheeks, which were still just barely hidden under the blankets. Said fabric started to feel much too hot in an almost pleasant way. Chris blinking, his mouth had gone slack, his lips a shiny red. 

Both the hands-on him were almost pulsating with the beating of his heart, Chris already having a difficult time differentiating between his own heartbeat and Paul’s, they almost seemed entirely in sync anyway. His toes curling as the hand on his chest, squeezing at the flesh. The bassist's head dipping down to trail small light kisses along Chris’s jaw, each one felt like a small fire lit on the percussionist's skin. The man whimpering and tilting his head up so more of his neck was exposed, pale dappled skin now more accessible. Which Paul took advantage of almost immediately, his lips traveling down the curve of Chris’s neck, daring to kiss a light kiss just under the man’s ear. Chris squirming as the mouth settled just on his jugular vein, gently starting to suck and nip at the delicate area. Slowly the skin became a dull red, blood rushing to it as Paul’s mouth worked to suck a love bite into the pale throat. Another whimper from the brunette, his hands clutching in the man’s dark hair, like he was trying to ground himself. 

The mouth on his throat moving further down once the love bite had started to blossom in shades of red and purple. Chris made small noises every time the lips kissed along his collarbone and down his chest. Leaving the occasional hickey and love bite in the skin. Each one felt strangely wonderful and amplified, Chris’s whole body twitching, his finger curling in Paul’s hair. He was laying more on his back now, the other man half over him, a welded thigh between his own. A nervous keening sound leaving Chris when the blankets had entirely been pushed off him, though now he was fully exposed. His chest heaving with attempted deep breaths. 

A strangle yelping sound that melted into a near-pornographic moan rising from the percussionist when the thigh jammed between his legs pressed up against him, the fabric texture of his inner thighs and the pressure against his swelling dick was overwhelming his brain. Paul raised his head to look at Chris, a slightly worried expression on his face. But then Chris moaned loudly again, grinding his hips down against the denim clamp thigh, his head tilting to the side, lips parted. The bassist taking a second to admire the percussionist before dipping his head back down to suck another love bite into the skin right below the man’s clavicle, the body jolting under him as the mouth continued its path down. The mouth moving to take up to a position opposite to the hand massaging and pinching one of the percussionist’s nipples between its digits. The sensitive pink bud delicately brought into the bassist's mouth, the golden ring through it catching on the man’s teeth. Chris mewling, his back arching just a bit to push against the heat and feeling of the other man’s mouth. 

Even in Chris’s foggy brain, it felt like he was going to fucking _explode._ A string of drool leaking out of his mouth and onto the pillow, his arms splayed out next to him. His head was swimming, fire burning in his belly, his dick _begging_ for something over than denim to rub against it. Chris’s body arched again as teeth nipped at the skin around his pierced nipple, a whimpered swear from his own throat. Chris spread his legs just a little further, shifting his hips down again to grind against the man’s leg, which got Paul to groan; a final nip to Chris’s chest as the man pulled away, panting and looking at Chris. Who could barely focus on any one thing, only briefly meeting the man’s dark eyes. Only able to communicate an intense pleading need. Paul let out a huffing sound, his breath fanning out over Chris’s chest, the area around the flushed bud now soaked in drool. The bassist moved, reaching a long arm to pull open the bedside table, almost knocking the water bottle off of it in the process of opening up the drawer. His movement’s not necessarily fast, but very much communicating he’d rather be touching Chris than doing anything else. The bassist finally finding what he was looking for and pushing the drawer shut, placing two things on to the bed next to them. Sitting back on his knees, thigh still jutted between Chris’s legs. The man below him still too out of it to register what the bassist was doing. 

Only when a hand, slicked with lube, wrapped thick fingers through his near painfully hard dick did Chris gasp, the muscles in his legs spasming. Paul watching the way the brunette’s face contorted, the lubed up fingers carefully stroking up and down the dick in an attempt to pull moaned out of the drugged-up man. Which didn’t take much, Chris inhaling sharply and letting out a shaky gasp when the edge of Paul’s thumb rubbed repeatedly up the slit in the head of his dick, milky precum smearing across the digit. The slow and deliberate movements on the edge of maddening, Chris rolling his head back against the pillow, the man’s other hand staying steady at the percussionist's waist; black painted nails just barely pressing into the skin. A vein swelling on the side of Chris’s dick, a finger moving to massage it, the percussionist whimpering again, his thighs clamping together around Paul’s leg, hips grinding down to further the pressure against his ass. Chris, if he could actually get in control of his mouth, was on the verge of _begging_ Paul to fuck him. 

The hand leaving his dick, Chris whimpering loudly, a string of drool dripping from his lips, hair sticking to his cheeks. His fingers tensing and curling around nothing, palm up against the pillow, Chris’s breathing shallow. A hand on his dick’s base, smearing more lubricant over the head, Then something unlike the bassist's hands pressed to the cock, ringing the tip. Chris rocked his hips and groaned when the ring was forced past the tip, tight but not wholly unpleasant as it was worked down the shaft. Paul was muttering quiet shushing sounds and whispers of praise as the thing was finally flush with the base of the cock. The shallow breaths from the percussionist speeding up as the dark-haired man’s fingers loosely wrapped just under the sensitive precum slick flushed tip. The man’s other hand fiddling with the cockring. 

Chris’s whole body jolted his back arching, a long moaning cry from his throat. The vibrations spiking out from the ring around the base of his dick caused his vision to sway, no longer in control of his hips as they bucked upward with the sensation buzzing through his very fucking _soul._ The bassist above him watched in reverence as Chris’s head rolled back against the pillow again, drool coating part of his chin, pupils dilated so far almost all the blue was hidden away. The bassist letting out a sound of satisfaction, his brain pushing away all logical function, tongue darting out to lick his lips. The bassist moving back, his hands moving to help coax Chris to roll on his stomach, the percussionist not resisting besides a loud whine. The man now laid flat-bellied on the bed, his hips rutting forward once as his dick was trapped between him and the mattress, the ring still buzzing around it, maybe it was a bit cruel. _Maybe._ But Chris seemed to enjoy it as his cheek pressed to the pillow, drool leaking from his lips, his arms beside him on the bed, already ready to dig his fingers into the sheets. 

Large hands settling on the inside of his thighs, spreading them apart as Chris let out a muffled sound into the fabric of the pillow. The bassist moved to position himself between, lowering himself until he was almost laying between them, though his hands were now teasingly squeezing at the fat of Chris’s ass. The percussionist made an almost embarrassed sound when he felt the hands spread his asscheeks, trying to wriggle his hips which only succeeded in moans as his dick was rubbed against the sheet of the bed, the ring tight around the base. Chris’s whole body jolted again when he felt someone wet teasingly press to his asshole, the tip of the piercing grazing out it. The bassist hummed softly as his face was pressed between the asscheeks, his arms over the thighs, and trapped them to the bed while his hand held gently at the percussionist’s hips; thumbs pressing to the small indents in his lower back. The tongue lightly licking over the hole again, Chris choking out a sound. He hadn’t really expected this but in his current state, he couldn’t bring himself to even protest, rather try to spread his legs more and whimper into the pillow. 

The piercing through the bassist's tongue was teasing against the hole, getting Chris to whine. Spit used as an impromptu lubricant as the tip of the tongue pressed inside, working itself in further as the percussionist trembled, his insides feverishly warm. Withdrawing again to tease the edge. Already getting Chris to weakly rut his hips against the bed, panting as the mix of sensation welled up in his lower belly. The near overwhelming feeling making Chris’s fingers start to grasp at the bedsheets. Each flick and movement of the bassist's tongue pulling a whimper or meowing sound from Chris. The percussionist inside his own head if nothing else, not entirely sure how long it had been while he tried again to rut his dick into the sheets, though the hand holding steady to his hips stopped him dead. A pleading noise from the brunette, only met with a humming sound from the other man which shocked up his spine. If the man continued, Chris was going to slap him. Another pleading sound from his throat, almost like a coherent _‘please please please’._ Which finally got Paul to shift away for a moment, a smile on his spit coated lips as letting Chris pant and huff out a few difficult breaths. 

The mouth instead moving to just the inside on Chris’s right thigh, just at the crux of it. Heated breaths fanning out, almost tickling. A pitched sound from Chris was the mouth connected with his skin, starting to gently suck a bruise into it. The area much more sensitive than Chris had anticipated while his muscles spasmed. Tongue rolling over the flesh for a few moments, teeth nipping at the skin. Then the mouth unlatched and moved to a new area, now just on the back of the percussionist's thigh. Serval more of the love bites marked into the flesh, drool slicking part of the pale skin, all the while Chris making breathy noises and trying to move his hips. 

Eventually, the mouth moving away, the bassist panting; taking a second before sitting back up, his hands shifting back to the percussionist asscheeks, spreading them, admiring the percussionist for as long as the man would let him. Chris whimpering and grinding his dick against the mattress again, the ring around it was driving him mad and the added embarrassment of the bassist licking and touching him like _that,_ was going to kill him. Only a whining protest from Chris as he was turned back over, if he had his way he would have kept rutting into the mattress like a dog in heat, his own tongue lulling out of his mouth. Gasping as he felt his legs being moved to a more comfortable position spread apart on the bed. An arm half slung over his chest, falling off to his side, 

Paul shifted back, his other hand used to slowly bend one of Chris’s legs up and out of the way so he could more easily move fully between them. The other leg nudged to the side and half bent around the bassist, who grabbed the small thing of lube, squeezing more onto his fingers before looking up to study Chris. The percussionist trembling, his cock oozing more precum that dripping in pearly string down to his belly, the ring around the base of his dick buzzing away; not even at its highest setting. 

An affectionate smile splitting Paul’s face. He moved slower now, spreading Chris’s legs a little more, one hand going to hold a pale thigh and the other slipping down in between them. A needy mewling noise from Chris as a finger pressed against his asshole, which was still slick with drool. His brain was already on the brink of shutting down all higher functions just to deal with the way his body felt at the moment. Everything felt wonderfully raw, like an exposed nerve. 

A whimper from Chris as the fingers rubbed over his hole, teasing and slow. Barely even pushing into the tight begging heat of the percussionist's body. One of the fingers skimming against Chris’s entrance, the tip of the finger just slightly pushing in. Chris rocking his hips, chewing on the inside of his cheek, he _needed_ the other man to do more. A small relief when the finger pushed into the first knuckle, the inner muscles of Chris’s body tensing around even this first intrusion that had gone deeper than the bassist's tongue. Paul shifting on his knees, one of Chris’s legs propped up on the bassist spread thigh, the both of them breathing heavily; though Chris’s breathing was much more frantic and inconsistent as the finger was pushed ever so slowly further into him, almost up to the second knuckle. The digit moving at a mocking leisure pace, Chris letting out a high pitch whine, feebly trying to grind his hips down. Which only made Paul smile, finally sinking his finger fully up to the third knuckle inside Chris; though he waited as the muscles fluttered around it. The percussionist trembling, back arching again. His belly felt like it was full of fire, his dick aching from the stimulation of the buzzing ring at its base. 

When the finger curled inside him, Chris jolted and mewled. The digit moving slowly inside him, pushing dead against Chris’s prostate. The percussionist nearly losing it with another strangled breathy cry from his lips, legs trembling, belly muscles jumping and tensing. The dick twitching against Chris’s stomach, pink and swollen and sensitive; the milky precum smeared all over the head and still beading from the slit. The vibrations buzzed through its length, while the percussionist whimpered and moaned. At this point almost sure Paul was going to make him reach his peak damn near completely untouched and drugged up, then again the man could do it even without the drug racing through Chris’s system. The percussionist’s blush only getting darker, his breath quickening. 

Chris almost entirely mentally unprepared when the second finger casually started to tease at his entrance, though his body seemed to beg for it. His muscles slackening just slightly to allow the finger to push in a small bit before tensing up again, Chris whining as a shock of fire ran up his spine. Everything felt fuzzy around the edges, his eyes still couldn’t focus and his entire form was dangerously close to falling apart already. The methodical torturously slow-building pressure of the finger pushing into him made Chris throw his head back against the pillows, his cock throbbing and begging for release. _So close._ Hips jolting as the finger joined the first, the both settling in his insides; the feeling like melting sugar. 

The whole time Paul had been watching intently, his whole being desperate to be as close to Chris as possible. Gently thrusting his fingers in and out of the man under him just to see the way the man’s face twisted how his body trembled. Paul barely resisted the urge to touch the percussionist's dick with his other hand, to wrap his finger back around the hot slick erection and see how Chris would whimper and cry out. But the want-- _need_ to see Chris squirm and cum untouched outweigh it. Though the bassist did grant them both a small mercy, his fingers inside Chris working a tiny bit faster while he leaned forward, hand moving to help prop himself up as his face was lower to the percussionist’s chest. Chris made a sound close to a yelp when the other man took a tender rosy bud back into his mouth and started to gently tongue it. The percussionist’s hips jolting accompanied by breathy moans from his throat, so very close he could swear that the next even tiny movement or touch from the bassist was going to set him off. 

The pads of the bassist's finger pressing and massaging against Chris’s prostate causing a small tremor to run up the percussionist’s spine. A sound like a mix of a whimper and a crying moan from his that as Chris tossed his head back against the pillows, back arching, mouth going slack. The orgasm making his head go even fuzzier than it already was, mind blacking out around the edges. Pearly cum had splattered across his belly, contrasting against his blotchy pale sweaty skin. Small jolting up and down his body as afterglow traveled like honey through his veins, his muscles still jumped and spanned. The percussionist's chest heaving, the ring around his dick still buzzing, which was quickly becoming painful as oversensitivity flooded through him. 

A whimper from his throat as the fingers still buried inside him slowly started to move again, curling forward and making Chris’s entrance tighten around the digits, muscles tensing. The tongue flicking across his nipple, the piercing through it grazing over the now even more sensitive area. A weak cry from Chris. His head was in the clouds and his body was burning up, skin hot to the touch. Chris’s hips bucked upward again, his dick now half-soft and oversensitive though the cockring still vibrated around it. The percussionist rolled his head to the side, clenching his jaw, trying to breathe in gasps of air. It was getting exponentially harder to control his mind or body, and the man still slowly fucking fingers into his ass and licking at his chest certainly wasn't helping. 

A pathetically high pitched sound from Chris, which finally spurred something like sympathy in Paul. The man leaning back and unlatching himself from the percussionist's aching chest, his hand moving to trail fingers over Chris’s belly, which was coated in ejaculant, some of which had got onto Paul’s own shirt. The sticky fluid running down the line of the brunette abdomen as well as soaking into the scant pubic hair. The bassist's hand finally brushed its fingers off the tender cock, Chris whimpering and shaking when a hand wrapped around his softening dick and tried to work off the cock ring. The percussionist throwing his head to the side, finally in enough control of his mouth to whisper out a _‘no’,_ Which immediately made Paul freeze. His thumb only daring to push the button to stop the vibration of the cockring, which got the percussionist to whimper again. In truth the brunette was loving the way the thing felt even in the midst of the overstimulation, he definitely didn’t want it off, but he did need a bit of a break. 

The percussionist's body went almost limp into the mattress, though his legs were still bent around Paul, trying hard not to move the lower part of his body as the fingers were still threatening to curl and move inside him. Just a small moment of soundness in his head. Everything was buzzy and pretty and nice. His head tilting at an angle where he could stare glassy-eyed at Paul, who still looked a small bit worried. Chris’s mouth twitching up into a poor imputation of a smile, but he couldn't do better at the moment. The bassist's face was still fuzzy around the edges, the curls of his hair mesmerizing, dark eyes immediately drawing in Chris’s attention like they were looking right into and through him. Like the man could read his thoughts. 

_“You okay, angel?”_ Chris took a second to collect himself enough to nod weakly, only for him to clench his teeth again and mewl when the digits moved. Just barely scissoring the percussionist muscles apart before, much to Chris’s annoyance, pulled all the way out of him with a rush of burning stimulation. The percussionist making a whining sound, wiggling his hips, eyes going all unfocused again. The bassist hurried to tug off his own shirt, balling it up and throwing it next to the bed. Blue eyes daring to refocus and skim over the bassist's caramel skin, Chris following the lines of the tattoos inked in the man’s arms and torso. The one across the bassist collarbone looking like it was twisting and shifting like a wild snake, which Chris was mesmerized by, a small sound escaping his throat. Chris made an effort to move one of his legs so it was hooked over the bassist's hip, so it pressed to the man’s now bare side, skin radiating warmth; the percussionist whimpering, trying to get the man closer to him. Even if they were in a dangerously familiar position, Chris couldn't help but ignore it. At the moment everything was good and distorted around the edges in a good way, and his brain was too full of cotton candy to worry about anything but the present. 

The thing of lube grabbed again, more of it squeezed out onto the bassist's fingers, Chris whimpering again when the fingers pressed to his entrance, the first two sliding in much earlier than before, though a loud whine from the percussionist when the third tried to work past the tight ring of muscles that tensed around it. The new coating of lube easing the smoldering feeling of his muscles being stretched as the third digit was pressed in. Chris whimpered and moaned with every movement and bit of situation as the three fingers finally settled inside of him, the muscles in the percussionist's legs and back tensing and forcing him to twitch and shiver. Finally, the digit started to cautiously start to thrust in and out, the first time just barely moving out before pushing back in, a slow and tortuous increase in speed as Chris could do nothing but tremble and moan like he was already being fucked full stop, his eye staring unfocused at the ceiling. 

Even though he was able to, Chris didn’t want the man to stop touching him, even if it hurt, pain with an edge of pleasure. A razor's edge. The fingers sluggishly sliding in and out, all while Paul studied Chris’s face to make sure there wasn't any objection in the man, luckily finding none as the pace of his hand increased in order to make the man under him whine and grind his hips down onto the fingers. The three digits found the sweet spot inside Chris’s belly and rubbing against it, the pressure drawing whines and shaky breaths out of the man. The brunette's hair wild around his face, cheeks a deep feverish red.

The sound that came from Chris’s throat was the drugged up approximation of the word _‘please’,_ the percussionist on the verge of losing his mind. And Paul couldn’t deny himself or the percussionist any longer. His fingers perhaps pulled a bit too quickly out of Chris, causing the man to whine loudly and clamp his legs around the bassist’s waist. Paul’s hand moved to undo the zipper of his jeans, almost breaking it because the last thing on his mind was the integrity of the thing. Shoving down his pants and boxers, a hand moving to pull his cock out of its confines. The dick was painfully hard, Paul grunting, his head tilting to the side as a string of precum dripped down onto Chris’s lower belly, mingling with the leftover of the percussionist's previous orgasm. The other man’s cock slowly started to harden again against the skin of his sticky belly, though this time the tip was closer to a crimson shade and it just _looked_ sensitive. Paul was going to lose his mind. 

One of the bassist's hands moving to help reposition Chris’s hips as he shifted closer, the other going to slather more lube over his dick. Paul letting out a loud grunt as his dick throbbed in his fist, needed simmering in his gut like it had been since the beginning of this whole thing. A pleading whine from the man under him spurring him on again. Chris’s legs bent up and around his waist, so the tip of the bassist’s cock could brush against the stretched and begging hole, the ring through the tip the first to push inside, Chris already squirming. The percussionist was shivering like a leaf caught in a windstorm, his face cherry red, the hickies trailing over his throat and chest contrasting with his skin. Breathy desperate sounds coming from the brunette’s form as the head of the dick settled inside him, the percussionist's inner muscles tensing and losing with each breath. 

The man’s body already feeling deadly hot around Paul’s dick as he feverishly moved his hips forward to push more of the cock inside, the first barbell catching and slipping inside with a high pitched whimper from Chris. The percussionist's whole body was jolting, his own dick painfully hard against his belly again, dribbling even more precum, swollen and sensitive; the ring still around the base. Chris trying to count every single fucking _nanometer_ of the cock stretching and pushing into him in an effort to preserve even the bit of sanity he had left. The thing was making his guts twist, moans from his mouth as the cock filled up his insides. Chris could tell that the drugs flowing through his system were still running high, their influence making everything even more a mix of agony and bliss. His head rolled to the side on the pillow as he gasped for air, it was hard to breathe in the best way possible as the bassist dick slowly sank further into him. Paul was muttering something, though Chris for the life of him couldn’t make out what. 

A small jolt of the bassist's hips, accompanied by a grunt. The man was fighting every single nerve in his _fucking_ body to not let himself thrust fast and hard into Chris. The percussionist already felt like heaven. Paul’s hand had moved to hold onto the pale narrow hips, thumbs digging into the hip bones and making Chris whine. The cock was almost all the way inside the percussionist’s trembling body, Paul willing himself to be gentle as he finally bottomed out in Chris’s guts, which were sickeningly warm and tight around him. The bassist grunting and panting, his dark eyes clouding over a bit, head tilting down. He could feel the body of the percussionist tense around him, the man’s back arching a few times with a long moan like he was silently, _okay not really silently,_ begging. Chris rocking his hips, just managing to regain enough motor control over one of his arms to trail it down over his own abdomen, some of the ejaculant from before smearing on the hand as the percussionist tried to desperately get his now slick hand to mess with the ring around the base of his dick. Paul taking a second before he realized what the percussionist wanted, a shock of heat running up his spine as Chris let out an obscene sounding moan at the vibrating cockring buzzed to life again, at the same moment Paul’s hips jutting forward and fucking his cock into the percussionist. 

Even if Chris was in control of his mouth, he would have only begged the man to do that again. But at the moment the only thing the percussionist’s mouth seemed good for was to drool and try to babble out something even slightly coherent between his gasps and whimpers. If it was possible, Chris’s moans got more obscene as Paul’s hips rolled into him, the piercing grazing along his inner walls and right against his prostate. Though just the feeling of Paul inside him was overwhelming Chris, not to mention the ring buzzing and vibrating at the base of his own dick. If he hadn’t lost his mind before, he was getting awfully close now. The hands back on his hips dragging him closer to meet Paul’s thrusts, which were torturously slow getting deeper and deeper with each held back but non-the-less strong movement of the bassist's hips. They were both panting for air, their movement sluggish. The heat around and working its way into them was feverish and driving them both mad. 

The bassist groaning and rolling his hips into the man below him, his cock was pulsating and leaking precum, slicking the percussionist insides. His eyes transfixed by Chris’s face. Who, honest to god, looked like an angel sent down from heaven. And not the ones with eight wings and four million eyes. But the ones with soft skin, dazzling eyes, and ethereal cries. A deep growling sound from Paul as he dragged his hand down the percussionist's hips and over the muscled thighs. Leaving red marks on the skin, which wasn't really his intention but he couldn’t help himself. And the man below him arched his back again, his own arm limp at his sides and legs locked around Paul’s waist as the man continued to fuck him. It felt like every single fucking _molecule_ of his overstimulated oversensitive drugged-up wreck of a body was burning and spamming in the most wonderfully painful way. Chris could swear he was in heaven at the moment, the cock in his guts was making him moan and drool with every thrust, his insides raw and constricting causing a rumbling groan from the man above him. Chris getting a fluttery feeling in his chest. His aching dick begging to be touched, Chris chewing hard at his cheek, tasting a bit of blood, but he could barely control his hands which had weakly knotted themselves in the sheets of the bed. 

“P _-pauli-ee. . .”_ The bassist's attention immediately snapped to Chris. The man’s voice was barely audible above the sound of skin against skin and their panting breaths which filled the room. The pleading way the percussionist said Paul’s name made the knots in his belly tighten, hips snapping forward in an effort to make the man say it again. Which he did, with a moaning cry to accompany it. A choked out a plea on the percussionist’s lax tongue. Paul couldn’t help it when his thrust ramped up their pace if only a bit, the way Chris sounded and looked under him was intoxicating. The second worse addiction he’d had in his life, then again if the percussionist kept it up it very well might snag first place. 

Chris’s eyes were rolled all the way back in his head, his whole body twitching hard, a crying whimper loud and desperate from his throat. His eyes were welling up with tears, everything he was feeling was too much as the second orgasm ripped through him like an unsharpened blade. His entire form thrashing against the mattress, his arms tensing up, hands clawing at the sheet; tendons stretched so tight that might as well snap any second. More pearly fluid splattering across his belly, the head of his dick a deep maroon, the veins along the side pronounced. The percussionist bucking and rocking his hips, the afterglow hitting him even harder than the release as his brain short-circuited and his fingers dug into the sheet of the bed. He could barely breathe, his entire world shrinking to himself and the man above him.

The goldish light from the bedside lamp glowing over the bassist's skin, Chris hyper-focusing on absorbing every single detail he could pick out as his vision swayed. He couldn’t for the life of him stop trembling, his chest heaving. And the cock still slowly and torturously fucking into him didn’t help, the line between utter pain and pleasure blurring before Chris’s unfocused eyes as the bassist thrusts sped up. The man whispering apologies as he tried to chase down his own orgasm. Chris able to channel enough remaining scraps of control over his body to lock his legs around the man, attempting to pull the bassist to him. The dark-haired man’s eyes were half-lidded, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard, mouth dry, lips parted. The man looked like he was at near the peak of euphoria as his hips snapped forward again into Chris’s fucked out overstimulated body. The hands on Chris’s thigh squeezing at the muscle and fat, nails making red crescents in the skin. 

The bassist's hips stuttered, a chorus of deep choked out moans from his chest, half of which sounded like Chris’s name, his shoulders shaking, muscles spasming. The cock inside the percussionist throbbing with heat, Chris on the very edge of passing out as he let out a few frantic whimpering sounds. Then Chris could feel warmth flood into his guts, his insides now slick with ejaculant which was only fucked into him deeper by some more uncontrollable bucks of Paul’s hips. The man was grunting, leaning forward as his orgasm rushed through him, barely able to keep himself up while Chris panted out moans, weakly rocking his hips. The both of them breathing hard, the room filled with scattered breaths, the air like a thick blanket of heat. 

Paul’s hand unlatched from Chris’s thighs, shaking as they fell limp at the bassist’s sides. The man could barely think at the moment, let alone control any precise muscle movements, sweat shining on his shoulders. The jeans he’d neglected to actually get off earlier were much too uncomfortable, though at the moment he could only tilt his head back and try not to collapse onto Chris, who looked like he was in another universe altogether. The percussionist’s eye still halfway rolled into the back of his skull, mouth slack-jawed and skin a blotchy pink. _He still looked like an angel._ Paul grunted, raising a shaky hand to run fingers through the dark curls of his hair, his body was fighting to sleep while his head was fighting to stay awake so he could tend to Chris. His hand reached out to switch off the ring that had been buzzing around the percussionist at this point probably deadly oversensitive cock. The percussionist immediately relaxed a small his, the muscles in his arms relaxing, gasping out a short mewling sound. Another grunt from Paul as he moved his hands back to Chris’s hips, where bruises had already started to form, which made something like pride twinge in the bassist’s chest. _Though it was quickly followed by a bit of regret._

When he took hold again, he made sure his hands were much more gentle over the flesh. Helping hold Chris in place while he slowly started to pull his hips backward, earning a strangled desperate sound from the percussionist. Who was shivering so hard that Paul was forced to stop and take a second to let the man breathe. Chris’s fingers digging into the mattress, his legs fully falling away from the bassist's sides, some of the cum coating his belly trickle off and staining the sheets as his back arched again. The dick finally pulled out of Chris with a wet noise, the percussionist panting and whimpering at the feeling; suddenly feeling very empty in a strange way. The urge to shut his legs like the percussionist was embarrassed about how exposed he was, the neurons in his brain sending weak signals to his legs to do so, only getting the muscles to twitch uselessly. The mess that had been contained in his insides spilling partly out onto the bed, soaking the sheets between his thighs. Chris only quietly mewled, turning to tilt his head to the side on the pillow. 

The room still thick with heat and their slightly out-of-sync huffing breaths. Paul’s eyes transfixed by Chris, not able to look away from the man under him. His heart beating faster than it should even if he was still experiencing the subtle sugary remnants of an afterglow seeping through his nerves. The bassist's face only got a bit redder when he couldn’t stop himself from staring at the mess between the percussionist's pale scratched up thighs. Only when the man he was practically gawking at whimpered again did Paul snap out of his trance. Lazily sitting back, the soreness of his legs finally got to him and forced him to arrange his sitting position so his legs half dangled off the bed, though his body was still turned so he could watch the percussionist. Who had bent his own legs up off the bed, _still spread_ , the side of his face still pressing to the sweaty pillow, arms beside him; some of the sheets still trapped in his loose fists. Paul leaned forward, his hand moving to bruises along the outside of one of Chris’s thighs, Paul’s cheek pressing to the inner thigh just above the percussionist's knee, the flesh hot and slightly peach fuzzed to his touch. Tilting his head to he was pressing his lips to the soft skin, kissing it. A few more following up the thigh, Chris whimpering, sucking in a shaky breath. 

_“I love you, angel,”_ Chris wasn't able to control his mouth enough to say anything beyond a choked out breathy needy sound. All the remaining brainpower he had concentrating on trying to communicate to the bassist. Paul seemed to understand, a final gentle kiss to the skin before he pulled away, huffing as he stood. Almost falling over, which Chris would have laughed at if he wasn't completely out of it. The bassist stumbled away from the bed to retrieve something as the brunette whimpered again, his whole form felt wholly disconnected from his brain and yet at the same moment painfully and pleasurably real. His eyes blinking slowly, mouth babbling something under his breath. Only when a texture of a towel delicately rubbed over the slick skin of his belly did his brain even register anything but the ceiling of the room which was bathed in the soft light of the lamp on the side table.

The man had stumbled back into the room, his pants stripped off and the mess that had been on him also mostly cleaned off. Something set on the bedside table before the man approached Chris again. The towel he was currently using to gently clean off the percussionist had been clutched in his hand. Said percussionist, who had still been inside his own head, thoughts mostly loose dreams of color and feeling rather than coherence. Chris muttered something just barely above a whimper again, something that desperately wanted to sound like _‘i love you’_ but all the syllabus were stuck together. Instead, the brunette let out a mewling sound as the towel tried to cautiously clean some of the ejaculant off his now soft dick. The movements pausing, the towel pulled away. Though Chris only mewled louder when hands slowly worked around his sensitive dick to get the ring off of it, delicately removing it and placing it somewhere else. He could hear Paul mutter out an apology, which he subconsciously processed. The towel back to cleaning off his skin as best it could, trailing the curves of his abdomen and flanks. Though when the thing tried to clean between his legs and further, Chris whined. Shaking his head no against the pillow. For some reason, he desperately didn’t want to be cleaned up _there_ at the moment. The towel pulling away. And Chris feeling the comforting warm touch of the bassist bare hand up his abdomen. Dancing over the love bites from earlier. The thing laying palm down against his belly, fingers spread out over the skin. The trembling that had been incessant up and down Chris’s body started to settle down, the hand grazing up his stomach and ribs and up to brush fingers over his tender throat, then cup his cheek. The bassist moved to press a kiss into the cooling flesh, whispering another praise about how pretty and perfect Chris looked, which only half processed in the percussionist's brain anyway though that didn’t stop a subtle blush from reblossoming on his cheeks anyway. 

The mattress shifted when the man climbed fully back onto the bed to join Chris, Hell if it was big enough to fit the both of them. Chris feeling hands help him move onto his side, a whine from his throat as his body was settled into the new position, his lower half complaining, legs limp, though the back of his thighs did become slightly wet from the slick still left in his body leaking out. Chris huffing, his hand moving to find the bassist's waist, the man facing him and shifting closer until Chris’s head was back under his chin like it had been before. Thick arms wrapping gently around Chris, the man’s face nuzzling once against the brunette hair. The both of them letting out sleepy breaths. Eyes flickering closed as they held each other. Skin sticking together, the heat radiating off of them better than a blanket.

Chris couldn't remember much. His body was sore, head fuzzy for the last two or so days; the after-effects of the drugs in his system making everything sluggish and hazy. Though after a while it had started to clear. He was sure at some point he’d been carried to a bath, every inch of him cleaned slowly and gently. _Every_ inch. The memory made Chris a little flustered, curling the blankets closer to him. The sheets around him smell more unused, the subtle scent of detergent more than of the bassist. Chris wrinkling his nose. Despite being under the blankets the room felt cold, empty. Finally welling up enough willpower to push himself off of the bed, the blankets sliding off his shoulders, hair falling into his face. Chris squinted, a tired noise from his throat as he sat up. Taking a second to yawn and stretch, multiple vertebrae up and down his spine popping with a satisfied sigh from the percussionist. 

Brushing some of the hair out of his face as he turned to hang his legs off the bed, flinching at the thrum of soreness throughout his lower body. Taking a deep breath and lowering his feet to the carpeted floor. The cuffs of the sweatpants he’d barely registered that he was wearing falling to rest at their proper place baggy around his ankles. The percussionist held his breath before leaning forward to stand, almost falling back onto the bed before righting himself. It immediately hit with how long it had been since he’d walked on his own, though Chris still promptly unsure of what time it was or how long it had _really_ been. His head tilting down, one of his hands rising to tracing along and in between the path of bruises leading up his chest as far as he could see, hand clasping the side of his neck which was sore. Running his fingers over the seemingly normal skin, though he’d bet his life it was probably marked by a hickey or bite. Chris got the inklings of a smile on his face, cheeks heating up a bit as he stumbled towards the door of the room. 

The cool air of the hallways nipping at his bare upper half as he stepped out into the hallway, he was in a side room just down from the bathroom. Chris carefully stepping out and pulling the door almost shut behind him. The door at the end of the hallway that he _knew_ led to Paul’s bedroom was ever so slightly left ajar. His feet taking him forward even if Chris was slightly hesitant, sucking in a few quiet breaths as he peered inside the crack of the door. He couldn’t see much, the familiar light casting shadows on the walls of the room from where it was still lit. Chris holding his breath as he peaked in a little more, the bed half coming into view. He could see part of the bassist sitting on the bed, the man clearly engrossed in something. Chris only got slightly worried when he heard a grunt, watching the bassist roll up the sleeve of his shirt, something like a thin elastic string tightened just below the bicep of his muscled arm. Chris able to just see smallish red marks woven between the few tattoos scattered over the man’s forearm, clustered around the crux of the man’s elbow even with the low light of the room.

A creek sounding from the floor, Chris flinching hard and stumbling back from the door, he’d accidentally leaned too far forward and stepped on an old spot in floorboards. He could sense that the man’s attention had fixed on him even through the door. Anxiety bubbling up in his gut, like he’d been caught with his hand in his mother's wallet. His legs not exactly properly following directions as he almost fell back on the floor. 

_“Chris?”_ The percussionist froze, his feet rooted to the floor, “Chris? Baby, you there?” His legs moving on their own again, taking him slowly toward the door, peeking around it again, his face burning an embarrassed pink, shoulders shrugged up, hair falling in his face. Able to hold back a whimper when his gaze flicked up to meet the bassist's dark eyes then immediately flicked away again.

 _“S-sorry, I should have knocked,”_ The carpet suddenly seemed incredibly interesting. Paul made a sound in the back of his throat. Not that Chris could see, but the man made a gesture for the percussionist to come closer. 

_“Cm’ere, Angel,”_ Chris’s cheeks went a deeper shade of pink, his hand tightening on the edge of the door for a few moments before he gingerly stepped inside the room. Pushing the door almost all the way shut behind him. Slowly shifting up his eyes to look at the other man through the strings of hair that had fallen in front of his face, Chris raised a hand to tuck some of it behind an ear. The man had swiftly untied the strip of elastic from around his arm, tugging down the long sleeve. Though Chris still saw a few traces of small marks before the sleeve was all the way down, worry settled in his gut. _“Did you sleep okay?”_ Chris shifted on his feet, a twinge of soreness running up his body. 

_“Yea-h,”_ The air was thick with pause, before Paul sighed, dropping his head and rubbing a hand over his face. 

“Alright,” Chris glanced up to see the man gesturing for him to come closer, which the percussionist did with only a moment's hesitation. Settling himself next to the bassist on the edge of the bed where Paul had patted the mattress, the brunette's posture like a scared rabbit. But he didn’t flinch away when Paul laid a hand over his thigh, squeezing at the flesh just hard enough to get Chris to look up at him. The bassist looked ashamed, his eyes seemed deeper than normal. _“ ‘m sorry about t-that,”_ The man made a vague gesture to the bedside table, where Chris glanced over to see a few rigs encased in thin plastic medical bags, a lighter, and a bundle of tinfoil next to a small box. The things sending a small shiver down Chris’s spine, _not the worst things._ “I don’t really, _uhh. . . yeah,”_ The dark eyes darting away from Chris, who shifted forward slightly, a small burst of confidence making him grab the hand still laid on his thigh with his own; weaving their fingers together. The silence between them thick as smog again, Chris tightening his grip around the bassist's hand. 

_“It’s okay,”_ Chris’s voice was quiet, he could feel the man’s gaze back on him, the bassist about to speak before the brunette continued, _“I jus’, d-didn’t mean to interrupt you,”_ The bassist breathing out an _‘oh’_ under his breath. Chris chewing on the inside of his cheek. He could see Paul raising a hand to awkwardly scratch the side of his face, still not looking directly at him, the man looking almost tempted to ask about something. Chris reached over slowly, grabbing one of the needles in the plastic sleeves. Holding it in his hand, thumb caressing against the plastic, gentle as he could with it as he looked at it. A small smile tugging at the corner of his lip. “I u-used to be afraid of needles,” Paul didn’t much respond, only made a noise through his nose, while Chris continued; not entirely sure why he was talking but it seemed to help lessen the tension. “Doctor used to hold me down when I got ‘em. Cried my eyes out, y’know,” Chris laughing under his breath, staring down at the plastic capped tip of the needle. A pause between them for a second.

“You ever get over it?” Chris let out a quiet snorting laugh again, 

_“Yeah,_ eventually,” The percussionist held out the plastic sleeve, waiting for the other man to take it, which he eventually did. Holding it between his fingers and staring at it like Chris had done. “You can. _. . keep going if you want, y’know,”_ Paul sucked in a breath through his teeth, his posture visibly shifting, hand tightening its grasp on the rig, his eyes flicking over to just barely look at Chris as if he was trying to search the man’s facial expression for something. 

_“You-- we don’t have too,”_

_“I know,”_ Chris reached out his other hand to cup the side of the bassist's face and turn the man’s head gently towards him. The dark eyes trying to avoid his gaze but failing. _“But, I wanna be with you,”_ Paul’s head tilting into Chris’s hand, his eyebrow furrowing for a second like he was thinking. Something deep inside the bassist was twisting and rearing its ugly head, egging him to do something stupid. Instead, he only blinked wide-eyed at Chris and tried to speak again before the percussionist smiled nervously at him, running a thumb over his cheekbone like Paul had done to him so many times. _“I want to, okay?”_ Everything Paul was going to say caught in his throat. Just barely able to breathe out an _agreement._ The man hesitantly setting the needle down on the side table by the others and grabbing the string of elastic, his fingers only shaking a bit now as he set it down on his thigh for a moment. Chris only letting go of the bassist's other hand so he could gingerly help roll up the man’s sleeve, which almost seemed to surprise Paul. Though he didn’t stop the percussionist.

The percussionist running a finger over the very crux of Paul’s elbow, then down the forearm, tracing some of the veins just under the surface. Holding the dark-haired man’s wrist loosely in one hand, the other dancing fingers lightly over the cameral skin, making sure to avoid the small track marks that were only just visible. Chris only let go when the man slowly pulled away so he could grab a few things out of the small box on the side table, The percussionist dropping his hands, staring at his lap for a second before moving his own arm so he could trace the veins with a light touch. Tracing around the bones in his wrist and ten up to the crux of his own elbow. Pressing a finger to the thicker veins just in the divot. A small sound of amusement from his throat, 

“At least I won’t have to inject it into my eyes or something,” The man next to him tensing up, exhaling a long breath. 

_“Mhm, y’know you don’t hav-”_ Chris made a shushing sound. The bassist swallowed, taking a moment as he fiddled with the elastic string. _“You ever done this before?”_ That got Chris to inhale sharply, then sigh out a shaky breath. 

_“N-nah,”_ Something in Paul’s eyes shifted, a look of worry on the man’s face. But Chris only nervously smiled at him, the message of _‘i want to’_ clear as crystal in his eyes. The bassist sighing, his jaw tight as he grabbed the elastic string. Chris offering out his arm and allowing the thick elastic cord to be tied around it, just enough to be uncomfortably tight above his elbow. The percussionist taking a few deep breaths. _He wanted this. He wanted to be with Paul. Even if what he was doing sounded a bit crazy. Maybe a bit stupid._

The veins in his arm were more pronounced now, Chris had been staring at them moving his fingers, the tips of which were slightly tingly at this point. Not paying attention to much else until someone delicately grabbed his wrist. Chris refused to acknowledge the well of anxiety in his belly, only focusing on taking deep breaths. His arm was stretched towards Paul, the man was chewing on his lip piercings, the hand he had wrapped around Chris’s wrist was running a thumb over the tendons strung up the percussionist arm from just under his palm. Chris’s other hand moved to the side of the bassist's face, whispering a small voice of encouragement. Chris’s eye scanning over to see the needle held carefully in Paul’s other hand, the glass stem now partly filled with a swirling fluid. Only a pinch of nerves came back when he saw it, but he steeled himself. Sucking in a breath. _It’s fine._

Chris watched as the needle pressed just barely to one of the now pronounced veins in the arm, a slight hesitation before the needle sunk into his skin. A hiss of pain from the percussionist's throat. He could feel the needle in his skin, in his veins. He tried to breathe again, his throat seemed thicker than before. Something new flowing through his veins as the needle was pulled out of his arm. Chris hyper-focused on the small bead of blood that was left in the ditch of his elbow; soon wiped away with a small cloth. His vision was going soft at the edges. A warm good feeling flowing from his arm through his body. A sound hitching in his throat, like a moan but different. Just able to raise his head up to look at Paul, who was undoing the elastic around Chris’s arm and retie it around his own arm. The bassist focused his movement fluid. Chris watching, his lips slightly parted, brain going foggy and melting into honey and sugar. 

A fresh needle filled with the same stuff sinking into a vein in the bassist's arm, the man sighing. Settling both of the now used needles in the small box on the bedside table, undoing the elastic and setting it down before he blinked hard. Looking back to Chris, who was staring at him with doe eyes. The bassist couldn’t feel anything but paradise and love for the other man at the moment. Dragging the percussionist closer to him. A half muttered squeaking sound from the brunette as he was placed in Paul’s lap, his legs haphazardly wrapped around the man, large hands settling at Chris’s hips, the fingers half-pressing to his bare flesh. Chris could barely keep his head on straight, slowly blinking and managing to loosely wrap his arms around Paul’s shoulders, the bassist’s face buried in the curve of his throat; his breath light as a feather against the hickies that were marking up the skin. 

At the moment, Chris’s head was swimming, his whole body felt like it had a few days ago. Filled with warmth and heat, but now it was amplified, every single one of his veins filled with molten sweet nectar, and the contact of the bassist's hand at his hips was driving him a bit mad. The calloused fingers bruising over his flesh, Chris huffing and cuddling closer to the other man. The feeling of bliss overwhelming his system. Only recognizing that he was speaking when he heard his own whispers, just audible over their compiled breaths. Little whispers of _‘i love you’_ that Chris couldn't stop slipping from his lips. 

The percussionist could feel Paul’s shoulder shaking, the man holding him close, his face nuzzling into Chris’s shoulder. The bassist couldn’t get words off his tongue, they were too sticky and his brain was in that state of overwhelming sickening bliss that kept him coming back over and over again. _Just like he’d been with Chris._ A weak sound coming from the bassist's throat. _Chris was going to be the death of him more than heroin ever would be._

The whispers that were still cascading off the percussionist's tongue were becoming more and incoherent as the minutes went by. Paul’s hands moving to caress over the skin and muscle of Chris’s back, the touch soothing and getting the man to lie boneless and limp in his lap. The bassist crooning something that may as well have been incoherent as well in the percussionist ear before reaching out a long arm to grab something that he had placed on the side table some time ago. He hadn’t really planned it, _certainly not this. But there was no better time._ The thing pushed to the back of the tabletop, but still very much there as Paul gently picked it up. The small velvet box resting in his palm, his stomach doing a small flip. _He could at least wait until Chris was coherent again._

The percussionist's breaths were shallow, his eyes glassy. At some point they’d moved further onto the bed so Paul could lean against the wall, Chris still curled up on his lap between his legs. The percussionist's head resting on Paul’s chest, cheek pressed to the fabric of his shirt. He had no idea how long it had been, but everything still had an edge of softness and euphoria. The bassist's chest rising and falling with each breath, Chris lulled into a near unconsciousness. Sleepiness sticky to his consciousness like glue. The feeling of fingers caressing up and down his spine wasn't helping either. But then a different hand was moving to cradle the side of his face, helping him move his head from Paul’s chest as much as he didn’t want to. The percussionist yawning like a cat and squinting up at the bassist, who was looking down at him like Chris was the most precious thing in the world. A small blush rising on the brunette’s cheeks, shifting a bit closer to the other man, turning himself slightly, still blinking up at the other man with big blue doe eyes. 

_“Hi,”_ Paul softly smiled down at Chris, raising a hand to pet the percussionist’s hair. It took a second for Chris’s own brain to boot up so he could reply, parroting back what the bassist said in a breathy whisper. The hand lovingly combed through the tangled curls on the percussionist's head, only stopping so it could cup the side of Chris’s face again. _“I have something for you,”_ The bassist's voice almost had an air of nervousness in it, but Chris ignored it, tilting his head to the side, studying Paul’s face with unfocused half-lidded eyes and an affectionate little smile. The percussionist making a humming noise in the back of his throat. Paul’s other hand clutching something, raising it up so Chris could see it, his eyebrows furrowing for a second as he tried to figure out what it was. 

The man shifted into a more comfortable position in Paul’s lap. Legs on either side of the bassist as he watched Paul hold the box between them, the remaining hand that had shifted to Chris’s hip moving away to help open the box. Chris almost held his breath, unconsciously shifting a bit closer as Paul removed something shiny out from its hiding place, which was quickly set down before Paul held out his hand, the contents of the box resting on his palm. A long thin string of gold, faceted to a teardrop of ruby. Chris’s eyes went wide, his brain going blank for a second as he stared at the necklace settled in the bassist's hand. Paul was studying the other man’s expression as best he could, trying to debate with himself if he’d fucked up before Chris reached out a nervous hand and ran a finger over the delicate gold chain, which reflected the low light of the room and made it look almost molten. Paul gently picked up the necklace, undoing the small latch; hesitantly reaching out to fasten it around Chris’s neck. The percussionist tilted his head forward, still in a bit of shock. The metal slightly cool against his skin, the ruby, about the size of a pinky nail, settled in the center of his chest just under his collarbone. Right next to one of the many hickies already decorating his torso. Chris raising a hand to hold the ruby, crimson and dark against his skin. He wouldn’t have been surprised if it was actually his own blood infused into the crystal.

Holding the gem between his fingers, Chris couldn’t tear his gaze away, a small well of tears building up behind his eyes. Not able to stop them as the first one escaped his eye and trailed down his flushed face, he sniffed and raised his other hand to wipe away some of the tears. Paul’s eyes went wide. _“No, no, please, don’t cry, wa-wait, I-- don’t, p-please,”_ Chris completely ignored him and moved quickly to wrap his arms around Paul’s neck, forcing the man closer to him so he could slam their lips together. Paul made a surprised sound but melted as soon as Chris’s mouth was pressed to his own. Chris pulled away, looking at Paul with a teary smile on his face; the bassist looked a little shocked, a bit of worry still in his face. 

_“T-thank you,”_ Heat rose on Paul’s face, Chris’s hands cupping his cheeks. _“I love you,”_ The percussionist sniffed again, another happy tear running down his face, his mouth fixed in a happy warm smile. It took a second for Paul to respond, his face melting into a lovesick expression. 

_“I love you too, Angel,”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all sick fucks enjoyed,  
> Might write some more fucked up things in the future, and by might, I mean I definitely will


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